


Bump in the Night

by NorthernLights37



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ghosts, Halloween 2020, Haunted Keeps, Jonerys, Modern-Day Westeros, My very late Halloween fic, Not Strictly Canon, Pining, R Plus L Equals J, Romance, Smut, minor angst?, spooky shit, you'll see why - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:54:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27542674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernLights37/pseuds/NorthernLights37
Summary: Jon Snow and Gendry Waters travel to the Haunted Keep of Dragonstone, to document the restless spirits that linger on the grounds.  But for Jon, there is more, lurking, just beneath the surface, waiting to pull him under.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 98
Kudos: 220





	1. Haunted Souls

**Author's Note:**

> So first of all, apologies. I meant to have this done in time for Halloween but got side-tracked when the idea for Art of Deduction occurred to me, and I had to pause this one to crank that fic out. This fic is very much inspired by some of my favorite ghostly movies, especially some themes and ideas from The Haunting of Hill House/Bly Manor, and any various Ghost Hunter shows you may enjoy. This fic is in two parts, and I'm sure you'll likely have a good idea of what is happening to Jon by the end of Part 1. But that's the thing, with this fic. It's not really about keeping you, the reader, guessing, it's about Jon's journey to the truth.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this. Let me know what you think, or don't, I'm finishing this bitch either way :) Part Two up next week.
> 
> P.S. MOODBOARDS by my main bitch, my little brain twin baby, Magali Dragon 😘

* * *

  
The ferry engine made the flooring beneath Jon’s feet vibrate, a steady, droning, mechanical buzz that set his teeth on edge. He looked to where Gendry stood, at the head of the vessel, speaking animatedly to the stout man who’d been sent to meet them in King’s Landing, who’d helped them find a captain willing to carry an animal like Ghost, uncaged, to their destination. It had taken quite a bit of convincing and persuading at every leg of this journey, but at least the gentleman from the Westerosi Historical Society had seemed genuinely interested in this undertaking. But from what Jon could tell, that stemmed largely from the fact that the man was an avid listener to Gendry’s podcasts, and fully embraced this mission. He wanted to play a part in it, Jon was sure, no matter how small.

He leaned harder into Ghost, who sat to his right, just past the end of the hard wooden bench Jon had dropped onto the minute the boat engines had fired to life.

“Almost there, boy,” he whispered. He ran a hand slowly through the white, silky fur, and let out a sigh, as Dragonstone began to crawl into view. “Almost there.”

\-----------

“Gods be good.” Gendry sounded as though he was already out of breath, and he hadn’t even yet put foot to stair. Jon couldn’t exactly blame him. His eyes travelled the length of the ancient, winding stone staircase, seemingly carved into the very ground itself, that led up the dark, imposing Keep above. “You mean we’re meant to go all the way up, on foot?”

Jon snorted quietly, as their guide assured them that yes, from all reports it was actually a quite invigorating walk, and not to worry for the cases of equipment stacked along the shore. Those, he instructed, would be brought up by the staff who maintained the Keep, and delivered to one of the common areas, all in one piece. 

He took a few steps away from the men, letting their conversation become little more than a low steady drone. Gendry was always quite content to do the talking, which was perfectly alright with Jon. His eyes picked up the white blur off in the distance, Ghost seeming to have a marvelous time letting the surf play chase with him, no doubt as glad as he was to be off that dreaded boat.

It was a lovely thing, he decided; the warm sun above, the salty ocean air, the barest breeze off the water. It was almost peaceful, deceptively so, for there was an undercurrent he could barely feel, something not quite tangible, a note of sour in such sweetness.

_Oh yes_ , he thought. _They’re here._

Jon closed his eyes for a slow, ponderous moment, then opened them, certain that the air around him had shifted, grown heavier. It was familiar, and he felt a tingle of excitement because he knew what it meant, knew they’d been right to come. It had been at his insistence, after all, despite the known dangers that lay on these shores. Gendry had been more hesitant than usual, but Jon had finally forced the issue. In his bones, he knew they had to come.

_They’re watching_ , his mind whispered, and when his eyes opened he saw he was right.

Ghost was near, now, and stood still as stone on the sand, legs locked, ears pricked up, red eyes trained on something in the distance, up and away, in the darkened shadows of the Keep itself.

Jon followed the wolf’s line of sight with an easy nonchalance. They were old hands at this now, he and his wolf. As naturally as he could he let his gaze travel, and then, with great satisfaction, he spied his quarry.

“Third floor up,” he muttered, “eighth window over, from the left.” A flash of white, that was all it was, from this distance, but another check to Ghost’s still-frozen form was all the confirmation he needed.

Spirits. Ghosts. All sorts of names for those souls remaining in the realms of men existed, but for Jon they were all rather interchangeable. It was the spirits they were here for, the spirits they hunted, and documented, and catalogued.

It had been Gendry’s calling long before Jon’s, but over the years, since he’d first met the extremely chatty man, it had become Jon’s, too.

_And Ghost’s_ , he thought with a laugh, crossing the stand to scratch between the wolf’s ears, watching the animal slowly relax. But then, Ghost was a natural. Ghost could always see them. Always. Even when Jon could not. Especially when Gendry could not.

That was how it worked. In the pecking order of all things supernatural, it was Ghost who ranked first. That suited Jon just fine. He was glad, most times, to fade into the background. Ghost licked at his hand, and started walking towards Gendry, leaving Jon to follow.

“--The staff will be in the Keep, and at your disposal, during daylight hours,” their liaison was explaining, “But at night, I fear, you’re on your own.”

Gendry checked over his shoulder, met Jon’s eyes, then twisted back. “Why’s that?”

The man’s brow wrinkled, his face incredulous as he looked at Gendry. “Why, Mr. Waters, I assumed a man in your line of work would be well aware of the stories about the place.” He waved a hand toward the massive Keep above them. “In the past hundred years alone, 37 dead, countless more traumatized.” He clucked his tongue, and shook his head. “They do not dare sleep inside that Keep.” His voice lowered, and deepened with warning. “If we’re speaking plainly, I’d advise you to do the same. There’s a dormitory on the other side of the Keep, about five minutes’ drive. You can sleep there, if you like.”

Gendry seemed to consider the man’s words, and turned once more, gave Jon a half-smile which he answered with a nod. They knew what they were getting into. There had been countless books published over the years, about the most haunted place in Westeros. Dragonstone Keep had claimed many lives, but Jon wasn’t worried. He nearly thrummed with excitement, actually.

He started walking, making it to the boundary where the sand ended and the stone began, when he heard Gendry call out.

“Hang on, wait up!” He was halfway up the first flight when Gendry caught up to him, laughing. “Don’t start without me, you bastard.”

Jon snorted out a laugh in response and started walking faster. “Try to keep up, then.”

\------------

The Keep of Dragonstone was even more austere and harsh on the inside than its’ exterior suggested. It was like a museum, according to Gendry, but Jon thought it more like a tomb. Gendry’s boot heels clicked loudly on the stone floor, along with Ghost’s nails, as they made their way through the vast, grand entry. On the stone beneath their feet, in the very center of the space, was a massive sigil, inlaid in marble and onyx, three dragons screaming into the air, wound together.

Jon paused, and turned around slowly, trying to take it all in; the sweeping staircase, the tapestries strung along the walls, the slivers of sunlight trailing in, dust motes dancing along each golden beam. He flexed his hands at his sides, trying to make sense of what he felt.

All of these places that they’d been, over the years, together, they all had a feel, a temperature. That was Jon’s job, on these little quests. Feel what he could, get a sense for the danger.

Not all spirits were malevolent, but the ones that were…

...well, they could be hard to contend with.

“Well?” Gendry’s cheerful voice, bounced off the stone walls, echoing loudly. “What’s the verdict?”

Jon took a slow, steady inhale, and closed his eyes, opening himself to hear what the walls might tell him. A little of this, he reckoned, a little of that. Some good, some not so good. Equal parts peaceful and chaotic.

He gave a heavy exhale, and smiled. “A mixed bag, I think. A little something for everyone.”

Gendry grinned, and pumped a fist. “Excellent,” he exclaimed, just as a portly, pale man entered the room.

“Ah, you’ve made it,” he said, clearly nervous. He was dressed oddly, heavy robes, a link of chains around his neck. “We’ve been expecting you. I’m Samwell Tarly, the groundskeeper. Now,” he continued, not even pausing, though he seemed out of breath, “You can stay the next floor up, first two doors on your left, if you want, but I would suggest you don’t.” He seemed skittish, his eyes constantly checking the stained glass window behind where Jon, Gendry and Ghost stood, as though gauging how much daylight was left. “My wife Gilly and I have a little cottage just past the gates in the front, and you’re welcome there, though it might be a bit cramped.” Finally, he drew in a breath, finally settling his gaze on Ghost. “Is that a direwolf?”

Jon rolled his eyes, but Gendry just chuckled, nodding as he glanced over at the wolf’s hulking white form. “Don’t worry, he’s well-trained. Won’t be pissing on any priceless rugs and what-have-you.”

Samwell Tarly remained unamused; if anything, he grew even more agitated. “I have to ask, are you mad? Do you know what’s happened here? How many people have lost their lives? Had to spend their days in institutions, because of what they saw? This place is dangerous.”

He emphasized his last word, eyes wide and pleading, and finally Gendry stepped forward, clapping a hand on the man’s shoulder. “If things get out of hand, we’ll clear out. But trust me, Mr. Tarly, this isn’t our first rodeo. We’re pros.”

The groundskeeper didn’t look convinced, not in the least. “Oh, I know about you. I’ve read your books, listened to your podcasts, been all over your YouTube channel, Mr. Waters. But this place,” he raised his eyes, fearful, voice starting to shake. “It’s not like the others.”

Gendry frowned and cocked his head, shoving his hands into his insulated brown coat. “I’ve done my research Mr. Tarly. We know what we’re getting into. We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t.”

Samwell pressed his lips tight together, hands clasped before him, and studied the floor for a moment before he raised his head. “No,” he said ominously, “You don’t. You think you do, but you don’t. But I wager you’ll find out.”

He thrust a sheet of paper into Gendry’s hand, pulled seemingly from his dark robes, and made to leave, stepping around the men bringing in cases and boxes, all full of the equipment they’d brought along.

“Mind the girl,” he called out over his shoulder. “Last one that saw her had a heart attack and dropped dead.”

The words hung in the air long after the man left, buzzing through Jon’s mind. Between the pair of them, he and Gendry had consumed every drop of lore that could be found about the history of the Targaryens. Every sighting, every spirit, every death that had occurred in these walls was still fresh, and so it was easy to work out what the frightened groundskeeper was referencing.

“He means Rhaenys,” Gendry said quietly, then kissed his teeth. “Poor kid. Terrible, what happened to her, and her brother.”

Jon shuddered, something cold sweeping through him, at the sound of the girl’s name. “Aye,” he finally responded. “That;s always the way, though. It’s always the children that show themselves first.”

Gendry watched the men work, sighing in relief as the final items, two duffel bags, were brought in. He paced over and grabbed them, an excited bounce to his step as he turned and ducked his head toward the large staircase. “Well, then, let’s get settled in and get ready to meet the little Princess.”

\-------------

Jon and Ghost, they decided, once night had fallen and Gendry had dosed himself on immense amounts of instant coffee, would be the bait for their first attempt to contact the spirits that roamed this Keep. Gendry was mounting an infrared camera as Jon paced a slow circuit around the room, when he finally sounded a bit worried.

“You sure you want to be in here alone?” He was trying to be nonchalant, Jon could tell, but the cautious concern was there.

Jon stopped and shrugged, then smiled towards Ghost. “Won’t be alone, will I? I’ll have Ghost with me.”

Gendry chewed on his lip for a moment, considering, then nodded, moving to the opposite wall to place another sensor, to hopefully capture proof of ghostly activity, if any sure occur. “Well, I’ll be three doors down, wide awake. Will you call for me if you need help?”

Running a hand through his hair, Jon frowned, then walked over to the window, his eyes scanning the dark night sky, the full pale moon above. “I can hold my own, you know that.” He was certain Gendry DID know that; Jon had proven it on more than one occasion. There were vastly more unfriendly spirits than friendly, but none had gotten the best of Jon, or Ghost.

“Alright,” Gendry said, resigned, his blue eyes still betraying his anxiousness. “It’s just, this place feels different, doesn it? Even the air, it’s like it’s charged, no matter where I’m at in this place. And, I’m not too proud to confess, it’s bloody spooky at night.”

Jon just laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “We’ll be fine. And if I need your help, be sure you’ll know it.”

Gendry nodded agreeably, then looked around, surveying his work. “If you’re sure. That ought to do it. We’re wired for video and sound. My monitors are all set up, so we should be ready. Good night, Jon,” he said, then dipped his chin at Ghost and gave a mock bow, “Ser Wolf.”

Ghost didn’t make a sound, just watched Gendry leave, not turning to Jon until the door had latched behind the man. Jon walked to the unlit hearth, and sat himself in the uncomfortable wood and upholstered chair, the warmth of the wolf’s body a familiar, welcome heat as he settled beside Jon.

Quietly, Jon waited, his eyes travelling along the intricately carved dragons that decorated the mantle, letting himself fall deep into the endless abyss of his thoughts. They churned, as ever, never-stopping, as he pondered the question that always rose to the surface, the one Gendry had raised more than once, since he’d met the man near-dead in the snows near Castle Black.

What was he looking for?

It plagued him, the question, because he couldn’t ever seem to settle on the answer. What’s more, he couldn’t ever quite place his finger on why, precisely, his instincts seemed convinced that some spirit or another might have what he was searching for, even when he himself didn’t know.

He flicked the tip of Ghost’s ear, the wolf chuffing at him in response, red eyes offended when they met his. “Grumpy old cur,” he said under his breath.

He thought it might have been minutes, or maybe it was hours, but finally, the air seem to shift and change, and Ghost let out a low, pitiful whine.

Jon turned, as Ghost swung his great head around, and saw what had troubled his wolf.

“Hello,” he said quietly, to the small girl that now stood in the center of the room. He knew what had happened to her, the poor little Princess Rhaenys, one of the last generation of Targaryens, but the sight of her, still, was startling, and terrible.

Her dark hair was braided back from her face, and Jon was sure she likely had a sweet, lovely face when it was not contorted in agony. Her white sleeping gown was painted with dark blood, long dried, though it still seemed to flow from the gaping wound at her neck. One little hand was raised, and pressed to it, as though the girl was trying to stop blood that had long escaped, but, as he stood, cautiously, her other hand raised from her side.

Ghost didn’t move, just watched, as tears flowed down the girl’s cheeks. Jon realized he could hear a noise, a most disturbing one, realized it was breath wheezing out of the wound at her neck, a slight gurgle accompanying it. Her hand raised higher, reaching out to him, though she trembled.

She was frightening to behold, yes, but it was clear to Jon, who had seen all manner of things, that she was frightened herself.

“Do you want me to take your hand? Is there something you want to show me?”

He waited, keeping his distance, until she nodded as best she could.

“Alright then,” he said, soothingly, and crept forward, his own hand extending, then grasping her small, cold hand in his larger one.

He knew it was coming, but still, he was taken aback, as the room seemed to warp and change, and then they were in a different room, and he was no longer standing. He was wedged beneath a bed, a whimpering Rhaenys beside him, still very much alive to his eyes and beside herself with terror.

Voices sounded beyond the bed, angry masculine shouts, and screams, and a babe squalling. He looked to the girl, her left hand pressed against her own mouth, her right still tucked tightly in his. Her little teeth were chattering so loudly Jon could hear it, and he forced himself to look away, to see what was happening beyond the flimsy safety of the bed they were hidden under.

Then, he wished he hadn’t, as a mountain of a man, clad in armor, ripped that squalling little babe from his mother’s arms. His mother screamed and cursed, but the wicked knight just grinned evilly, and Jon found his own hoarse scream filling the air as the babe was lifted by his feet and swung, head-first, into the wall, the sickening crunch of his skull against the stone filling him with rage.

“No!” He tried to free himself, to crawl out, though he knew he could not stop it, but he was held tight by the small hand in his. The girl’s cheeks were wet with tears, and she only held tighter when he tried again to jerk his hand from her grasp. She uncovered her mouth only long enough to allow a tremulous plea.

“Don’t leave me.”

He nodded, jerkily, but the horror of what came next nearly swallowed him completely. She was the girl’s mother, he knew, because he knew this tale, knew what was about to happen to the unfortunate Princess Elia, but the sight of it...Gods be good, the sight of it was unbearable. And Jon knew that worse, still, was that if he could see it, that meant the girl had seen it, had borne witness to this man raping her mother, a violent attack that reduced Elia to harsh, ragged sobs.

“Don’t look,” he urged little Rhaenys, but she was beyond listening to him, held prisoner by this awful sight, whimpering uncontrollably now with each sound that escaped her mother, each terrible grunt of the man rutting away at her.

When the man pulled on Elia’s hair, and slit her throat, it was almost a relief, though Rhaenys trembled more, now, and he could hear the plea uttered against her hand, muffled but still clear enough for him to make out.

“Papa,” she pled, “Papa, Papa,” and Jon tried to shush her, tried to quiet her, but it was no use. Suddenly, they were both dragged from under the bed, both lifted up in the air, screaming in agony, putrid breath filling their nostrils as a blade flashed through the air.

Jon could swear he felt the bite of the knife at his throat, felt the spill of hot blood, felt the air leaving his lungs. He could swear he felt himself dying, as he and Rhaenys were dropped to the floor. They lay, together, and as he watched the life slowly drained from the little girl’s eyes, but still, she found the will to reach over, and lay her hand on his.

As soon as her little fingers traced along the top of his, it was over, blessedly so, and they were standing together in the darkened room. The only difference, now, were the pitiful cries that came from Jon’s left, and Ghost whined again as Jon realized what it was.

The girl could not speak, but her mouth formed the words, over and over, as she pointed and the squirming bundle on the floor.

_Brother_ , Jon thought. _Her brother._

He let out a shaky breath, and looked away, back to the girl.

“That’s your brother,” he said, and the girl nodded. “You’re Rhaenys,” he said slowly, amazed to see that the girl’s face was no longer a mask of terror; a tiny smile appearing at the sound of her name. “That’s your brother Aegon.” The smile faded, deep sorrow replacing it, and he slowly let go of her hand, walking to where the babe lay, crying feebly, feeling Ghost’s solid presence beside him. “May I pick him up?” Rhaenys seemed surprised by the request, her eyes widening, gaze growing keener as she considered his question, then nodded her assent. “We can’t leave him here, can we? That’s no place for a babe.”

He swallowed hard, and reached down, picking up the small little lad. Not even a year yet, he realized, steeling himself against the sight of the boy’s head as he lifted the child in his arms. He had silver hair, this boy, though the right side of his skull had been crushed, white bits of skull mixed with a red, weeping mass that peeked out. But the boy stopped crying, as Jon tucked him against his chest, his little fists, grabbing for Jon’s shirt, and he ignored the horror of it as he tapped a hand along the lad’s little back.

Then he walked back to his chair, Ghost following closely, and looked back to the girl, who was still standing, staring, watching him with an odd look.

“Do you want to sit for awhile?” Jon gestured to the other chair as he asked, keeping his voice as gentle as he could. Ghost shifted and stretched, his mouth opening in a pant that Jon often thought looked like a smile. When the girl still seemed hesitant, watching the wolf as she shifted nervously on her feet, Jon leaned over, careful not to jostle the babe now peaceful against his chest, and made a show of petting the top of Ghost’s head. “He’s a good boy, see? He’s my friend.”

Inch by inch, the girl came closer, her pale face awash in moonlight as she reached hesitantly forward. In the aftermath of what he had witnessed, Jon considered it miraculous when the girl smiled widely, his wolf staying still and patient as she swept her blood-crusted hands over him.

For a few moments Jon said nothing, glad to let the girl have a spot of happiness, to feed her curiosity. They were always curious, the ones that were children.

But eventually he broke the quiet, whispering softly. “That was terrible, what happened, Rhaenys. I’m sorry that happened to you.” The child ducked her head, hands in steady motion against Ghost’s fur. “And I’m sorry you were alone.”

Rhaenys sighed, and leaned against Ghost fully.

“You don’t need to be frightened of me. My friend Gendry and I, and Ghost, we want to be friends. Is that alright?”

Rhaenys straightened at his final question, her ghostly eyes scanning his face, and nodded decisively. Her hand came to land against the babe’s back, and she patted it several times, smiling softly now that the little lad had quieted. Then, with clumsy movements, she made to lift Aegon from his arms, and together they shifted him until she cradled her brother in her arms.

Her lips moved again, as she looked down at the babe, then back at Jon. ‘Brother.’

And then she was gone, as quickly as she’d come, leaving behind little more for Jon than empty space and a heavy heart.

————-

“Bloody hells, Jon.” Gendry paused before shoveling another spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth. “That’s amazing. And awful, of course.” He swallowed another bite, his eyes never leaving Jon’s. “I’ll check the footage in a bit, see if we caught anything.”

Jon stood, stepping away from the small table they’d pilfered to use for their own purposes, scratching his chin as he glanced at the play of lights along the floor, reds and golds painting the stone as the morning light hit the stained glass. “It’s strange, this place. Rhaenys and Aegon, they didn’t die here.”

Gendry tilted his head in thought, then nodded. “Right. King’s Landing.”

He took a few more steps, brow furrowed in concentration. “There are others, ones that have shown themselves here, that didn’t die here either. All Targaryens by blood.”

“Riiiiiight.” Gendry drug the word out as he took a final bite. “Certainly uncommon.” He paused, eyes flicking to Jon and then away, quickly, as he drummed his fingers on the table. “Most of ‘em stay put where they died, right?”

He needed to think on it more, to try to sort out what it was that seemed to pull them all here, if in fact that was the case.

He needed to explore.

Jon shrugged, and whistled to Ghost. “Far as I know, yes. With a few exceptions here or there. But this place...it’s different. And I’m not sure how. I’m going to look about, a bit. I’ll start outside.”

Gendry accepted that, nodding amiably and grabbing his dishes as he rose. “Cool. I’m going to get ready for my broadcast, then. Should have some great footage from last night for the podcast.” He wiggled his brows at Jon. “You taking Ghost with you?”

Jon smiled at the wolf, who gave a firm wag of his tail. “Always.”

\-----------

It was a beautiful day. The bright morning sun was blazing above, the sky was free of clouds, the air around him gently streaming by on a gentle breeze.

It was easy, on a day like this, to forget how deadly this place was. His own experiences had made him less-inclined towards fright the prior evening, but he knew, from the anecdotes that had been collected over the years, the research Gendry had put into the various and sundry legends about this place, that there were many spirits here that were decidedly unfriendly.

He wasn’t worried about himself, but he’d need to keep an eye on the lad, not leave him alone for too long inside that dark, ancient Keep.

Jon stood on the cliff tops for quite some time, just taking in the view, so very different from that cold, barren North that he’d grown up with. But despite the warmth of the day, there was a chill, a shiver, that would strike him occasionally, coupled with the unshakable sensation that he was being watched. He’d grown used to it, over the years of exploring every haunted spot known in Westeros, but it was still disconcerting, even in the wake of last night’s encounter.

Dragonstone was positively thick with souls, and it was making Ghost uneasy as well.

When the wolf stood, quickly, head pointed forward and letting out a low growl, Jon rose as well, cautiously. He pivoted, turning back towards the keep and tearing his eyes from the horizon, but by the time he was fully facing that imposing Keep he froze all together, as Ghost growled more forcefully, his black lips curling back and exposing long, sharp, white fangs.

There were...so many.

He had never seen so many gathered in one place, and though he was rooted to the spot his eyes danced frantically, trying to count in his head, to guess at how many silver-haired spirits now stood, staring silently, the grounds so thick with them that he could no longer see the emerald green of the grass that blanketed this cliff.

“Gods be good,” he whispered to Ghost, who only tensed further, snapping at the nearest, a tall man dressed in plain black, his tunic dusty and mottled with moss, a knotty wooden staff in his hand. One side of his face was stained a purple-red, a birthmark, Jon guessed, but though he was aged in appearance his purple eyes were keen and sharp as he stared at Jon. “How many, boy? A hundred?” He shook his head. “A thousand?”

That was closer, he reckoned, averting his eyes from the older man’s knowing stare to survey the rest of them. Men and women, both young and old, some in their primes and some well past, regarded him solemnly. Here and there were children, scattered, but his attention was drawn to the small, dark-haired girl who smiled slightly when their gazes locked.

“Hello, Princess,” Jon said quietly, and gave a subdued wave. “‘Tis good to see you again.”

She was holding a man’s hand, but before Jon could fully study him they were gone, all of them, in an instant, in the blink of an eye, as if they’d never been there at all.

All but one.

The gaunt-faced man with the birthmark narrowed his eyes, though Jon thought he saw his thin lips twitch as they assessed each other. His left hand held tight to Ghost’s fur, but to his surprise the wolf began to relax, incrementally, under the other man’s scrutiny.

“What is your name?” His voice was hoarse, but civil, laced with curiosity. In meeting the man’s eyes again, Jon was taken aback. All Targaryens were pale of hair, but this man did not possess the renowned amethyst Valyrian eyes. They were red, red as blood, red as Ghost’s. Jon swallowed hard, fighting the urge to look down, and away, for while there was no palpable malice from this man he could feel something else stirring, a yawning endless well of power.

“Jon Snow,” he answered truthfully.

Nodding thoughtfully, the man lowered his gaze, fully examining Jon from head to toe, then Ghost in turn. A slow circled was walked around Jon, who thought it wise to simply remain still and allow the scrutiny. Something about this man made him wary.

“Yes,” came the gruff response, finally. Stopping in front of Jon, the man rubbed thoughtfully at his chin, one hand still gripped firm to the staff in his hand. “You are. A bastard of the North, I presume.”

Jon felt his hackles rising. “Aye, that I am.”

As though he sensed Jon’s irritation, the man stepped back, a smile rising that stretched his thin lips. “I mean no offense,” he said mildly. “A man’s worth is not decided upon the circumstance of his birth, that I know more than most. I am Brynden.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “Rivers.” He sighed, then, and peered at Jon even more closely, as though me meant to gauge Jon’s reaction. “But others know me simply as Bloodraven.”

This Brynden Rivers nodded sagely as Jon’s eyes widened in recognition. “Ah, yes, I see you know the same. And, you have the right of it, a bastard as well. Northern blood, to boot. My mother was a Blackwood, you see.” He looked again to Ghost, and Jon felt a lingering surprise, that the wolf did not react at all. He sat, patiently, as though he had expected the scrutiny. “What a remarkable beast.”

“He’s more than that,” Jon said shortly. He loosened his hold on the wolf’s fur, and scratched along his head. “Much more.” Ghost was no mere beast. He was a part of Jon, he was in his blood, his oldest and truest companion. When Jon had awakened in Castle Black, on that cold slab of stone, it had been Ghost there waiting for him, Ghost who had comforted him after that Red Witch had worked her magic.

And in the great expanse of time since Jon’s watch had ended, and he had stormed forth from Castle Black for the lonesome wilderness beyond the Wall, Ghost had been his shadow, always near, always waiting. It had not been until they had stumbled upon Gendry, half buried in a snow drift and near-death, that Jon had even deigned to talk to another living creature besides his wolf. And it was only after Gendry that he realized how Melisandre had not saved him at all. She had cursed him, to some neverending existence, an aimless and meandering manner of living that had accounted to something just past a thousand years.

The world had changed, but Jon had not, in all that time. That empty space in his soul had only grown, and it had been that yearning, that odd longing for what was missing, that had led him since, and sent them both on the path that had led to these shores.

Slowly, those red eyes travelled back to Jon’s face. “There’s Stark blood in you, lad. None but a Stark could command a direwolf.” The spirit who called himself Bloodraven stepped forward, first one step, then another, and Jon felt himself move back in response, an involuntary reaction. “Why are you here, Jon Snow?” He cocked his head to the side, red eyes so sharp and hard, his mood shifting so quickly, that it served to tilt Jon even further off-balance. “What do you want?”

If Jon had known the answers, then he might have provided them. But there was something cunning and dangerous about the gleam in the man’s eyes, as he took another step forward, and Jon stepped back, the edge of the cliff now growing perilously close. Ghost rose and steadied Jon by pressing his great body against his side, allowing Jon to grab hold of his fur, letting out a warning growl from deep inside his chest.

“I...I do not know, my Lord. I wish that I did.” And that was the truth, words that almost seemed pulled from him, without his permission. Whatever civility he’d sensed in this man was gone, fled now, leaving in its place an almost sinister determination. He glanced over his shoulder, panic rising, gauging how much ground was left before it gave way to empty air. “But I mean you no harm, I swear it. I’m just…,” he struggled to find the proper way to express the shapeless void inside him, that lingering cold emptiness that would not leave, no matter how far he strayed from the ice and snow. His eyes locked with Bloodraven’s, gray on ruby, and he willed himself to remain calm. “There’s something I have to find. That’s all I know.”

Only a foot of distance existed between them, Ghost’s growl growing louder, and more angry, and the man straightened, suddenly, though he did not retreat. His eyes searched Jon’s, as if he would pull the answer from Jon’s soul, the answer his mouth could not provide. Without warning, quick as a snake striking, one long-fingered, bony hand flew out, and planted itself against Jon’s chest, the placement giving Jon a shudder of true, raw terror, because it was as if he knew. There was no way he should, but it was as if this Bloodraven knew that just below his palm, under Jon’s dark clothes, were the wounds that had stolen his life, before he had been raised again.

“Oh. OH.” Bloodraven seemed more shaken, then, that Jon himself, the rumble coming from Ghost dying off as he staggered back several feet, gaping at Jon. “No, you don’t know, do you?” He didn’t know what to make of the flash of pity that crossed the man’s face, the silent solemness that stole over him. He was just thankful that man had relented in his possible mission of forcing Jon down, down, down onto the rocky shoreline below. 

And then, oddly, the ghost before him shimmered, warping and changing, before Jon’s eyes. Aye, his hair was still pale as snow, his skin like fresh milk stained with red across his cheek, but he was infinitely more frightening when the shifting ceased. Gone were the dusty black tunic and breeches, in it’s place garments Jon knew well. The dark boiled leather, well-worn, the heavy black cloak, clasped around his neck, the thick gloves and fur-lined boots; aye, he knew these things. A fine sword was strapped around his waist, and he seemed to stand taller, though now he had only one eye, instead of two, the socket empty and red-rimmed. He seemed colder, harder, his thin face stern and forbidding as his remaining eye fixed Jon with a bloody stare, the picture of a Black Brother.

“You should take care, Jon Snow,” Brynden Rivers whispered thoughtfully. “Most here will mean you no harm, but not all.” He turned his head to look back at the Keep, then faced Jon once more. “And mind your young friend. This place is not safe for him, not for long.” His eye strayed to Ghost, who remained vigilant and alert, watching the spirit’s every move now. “Keep him close.”

“I always do,” Jon managed, trying to sound unaffected. “Do you know what it is?” The man’s head tilted, curious, brows raising. “What I’m looking for?” He winced immediately after at the peculiar desperation in his voice, but it had been so long, and it was so hard to remember. So many years wandering the lonesome wilderness beyond the Wall had dulled his memories, sometimes beyond repair, he feared.

Bloodraven looked down. “I do. And rest assured, you need seek it no more.” He lifted his chin, a deep and heavy sorry settling on his features. “It will find you.” He stepped back, regaining his stoic mask, and spread his arms wide. Jon thought, perhaps, he meant to simply fade away as most spirits did, but he was wrong.

Arms stretched wide, black cloak flapping in the wind, Bloodraven seemed to burst. And Jon went diving for Ghost, burying his face in that white fur, as a thick cloud of ravens took his place, screaming and diving for man and wolf, shivering as he felt them swoop past him, feathers brushing his cheeks and hair, his back and arms, until they were gone.

“Bloody hells,” he whispered against Ghost’s fur, and the wolf let out a groan in response.

\------------

“...And then he just,” Gendry shook his head, almost trembling with excitement, “exploded? Into crows?”

Jon sucked air through his teeth, head wavering back and forth. “Well, ravens, but yes, he did.”

Gendry’s blue eyes were impossibly wide. “Bloodraven. THE Bloodraven. Absolutely fantastic. All while I was in here chatting away on my bloody computer.”

Jon stretched his legs out before him, eyeing all of Gendry’s equipment. “Don’t worry, I reckon we’ll see him again at some point. But I do think he made a good point, Gendry. I think we should be very, very careful here. Especially YOU.”

Gendry scoffed, scowling at Jon as he pressed a hand to his chest in pretended hurt. “Come now, Jon, how long have we been at this? I can handle myself, you know that.” He chuckled then stood, crossing the solar that had become something of a base of operations for the pair, pulling a thick, ancient book from the folding table he’d set up along the side wall. “Okay, back to the beginning there, when you first turned, when they were all there. How many would you say, just best guess?”

Jon scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling weary and wrung-out from the encounter on the cliff, though the sky was still bright with light. It had been unsettling, for many reasons, but none he wanted to examine too closely, at least not now. “Too many to count. Thousands, it had to be. This place, Gendry, it’s crawling with them.” He leaned forward, elbows planted on his knees. “I mean it, Gendry. You need to be careful. It’s not a jest. It’s serious.” Gendry rolled his eyes, smirking as he scribbled a note in the journal he used to document their various trips, and encounters with those no longer living. “Don’t wander off on your own. Make sure Ghost or I are with you.”

His friend seemed ready to argue, but something on Jon’s face must have changed his mind. “Yeah, alright.” He shrugged and went back to flipping through the book, and Jon could see from the worn crimson edge of the binding it was the Targaryen history Gendry had found online, a rare edition that had come from the Citadel, for quite a pretty penny. “Bloodraven, Bloodraven,” he mumbled, his face lighting up when he stopped at an entry. He turned the book around, holding it open so Jon could see the portrait on the left page. “That him?”

Crossing to where Gendry stood, he squinted down, taking in the image on the page. It was all there, the pale hair and paler skin, the winestain mark along his cheek, although this showed Bryden Rivers before he had lost his eye, Jon reckoned. He held a longbow, and Jon leaned closer, something about the grain of the wood drawing his eye. “Weirwood,” he whispered to himself.

“Hmm?”

He looked up quickly. “The bow,” he pointed. “It’s made of weirwood.” He nodded at the long, gaunt face. “But yes, that’s him.”

Jon was vaguely familiar with who the man had been, but the specifics eluded him, and so he was grateful when Gendry began to rattle off the high points of the man’s life. “Quite a character, this Bloodraven. A Targaryen loyalist during the Blackfyre rebellions, Hand and Master of Whispers to not one but two Kings,” his finger scanned along the page as he summarized, and then let out a bright laugh. “Fucking hells, he was even Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

A cold realization settled over Jon. Not just a brother of the Night’s Watch, but Lord Commander as well.

Just like Jon, long ago, before this curse of everlasting life had been set upon him.

“Aye, he was wearing the black, before he…,” Jon brought his hands together then opened his palms, making his fingers fly.

“Turned into ravens, right.” Gendry tapped his finger on the page thoughtfully. “Makes sense, that he’d show himself to you, then. You’ve got some things in common.”

Jon nodded slightly but said nothing, wondering again at the way the man had thrust his hand against his chest, the shock that had been there in his lone red eye. He was quite used to seeing what spirits wished to show him, it had become something of an occupation at this point, but he couldn’t shake the notion that Bryden Rivers had peered inside HIM. It bordered on a violation, but he didn’t think there was anything to be done for it now.

Gendry was used to his silences, and so he just smiled and clapped his hands together. “Well, then, let’s work on getting more of this place wired up before night, eh? And we’ll sort of out who might show themselves next.” He snagged a free sheet of paper, a list they’d procured before they’d come, where they’d tabulated each sighting they could account for, and the frequency of each.

“Fine with me.” Jon looked to where Ghost lay, his body blocking the open door frame, and whistled. “Ghost.” That white head lifted, ruby eyes searching and finding him. “Let’s go.”

\-----------

  
  


The next two days passed in relative peace. There were places in the Keep that, according to the groundskeeper, they were not allowed. Those places were cordoned off, or locked, and for now, Gendry and Jon didn’t bother trying to infiltrate. There was enough of the sprawling place to set up for sound and video to be getting on with, anyway.

Jon didn’t see anything out of place, no snatches or glimpses of any wandering spirits, and he started to wonder if he didn’t imagine that interlude with this ‘Bloodraven’, if maybe he hadn’t dozed off up there on those cliffs and dreamed the whole thing.

That idea was hard to reconcile though, because Jon didn’t really dream, anymore, that he was aware of, at least.

Since he didn’t really have the knowledge to be of use with all Gendry’s assorted technology, he decided to give himself the proper ‘tour’, the one outlined in the pamphlets kept in the front entry hall of the Keep. He studied the map, and followed the guided instruction, Ghost trailing along side him, alert.

He started in the Throne room, and he could not help but admit that it was impressive. In the North, in Winterfell, such a thing didn’t exist, not like this. He knew the Great Hall of Winterfell, yes, he remembered feasts and such, but even so, there was no throne to sit upon, no chamber so vast to hold audiences.

Sconces lined the slate gray stone on each side, sooted above each iron holder, no doubt the echo of a thousand torches that had rested in them. There were glass-paned windows scattered in between, and Jon stopped to look at each one, the multi-colored staining depicting different scenes. Dragons and warriors and maidens fair, each panel telling a different story, until he crossed the center of the room. Inlaid on the floor is the sigil of House Targaryen, the three-headed dragon roaring into the sky, and he was seized by the instinct that he oughtn’t step on it. He circled around, instead, but drew to a halt when he heard a strange noise.

Now, it had been some time since Jon had lit a fire. An age, really. But he knew the sound of a fire sparking to life, that ‘whoosh’ when tinder catches and the flame is born, and he swore the room grew warmer, instantly. Slowly turning his head, he could see the reason, those empty sconces now bearing fiery torches that danced merrily.

He could feel, as well, that heavy shift in the air, that charge that meant he was no longer alone. He sucked in a breath, his eyes falling on Ghost, who was now stock-still at his side. The wolf stared ahead, but he didn’t make a sound, and so Jon thought that perhaps these new visitors might just be curious, not malevolent.

He forced his eyes up, inch by inch, towards the carved stone seat that was set upon the dais, a set of slate stairs leading up, and up, and up.

It was not one spirit there, but three. Upon the throne sat a man, with close-cropped silver hair, crowned with a thin silver and ruby circlet. He looked impassively at Jon, studying him, but Jon felt that same sensation as he had with Brynden on the cliffs; that sense of being seen, of being pried apart and examined, of being weighed and measured.

Flanking the man on either side were two women, each beautiful and regal, in different ways. The one to his right was smaller, curvier, softer to the eyes. She wore a crown as well, and a gown of black and red velvet, silver hair cascading down her back. She looked upon him more kindly, Jon thought, but still she scrutinized him intensely, searching for something he could not fathom.

To his left, a woman stood taller, more severe, though no less lovely. Her features were sharper, and her gown one of chain. A warrior, yes, that’s what she was, a sword belt wrapped around her narrow waist, a fine weapon sheathed. Her eyes narrowed as they met his, and she pursed her lips, though Jon could not tell if it was in curiosity or irritation.

But he knew who they were. They were the stuff of story and legend, and even if Gendry had not delved into a thorough history of House Targaryen, before they’d come, Jon would have known, anyway. Even a bastard knew of the conquerors, and he was so dazzled, for a moment, that he felt rooted to the spot.

He gathered himself, quickly, intuiting that he ought to tread lightly as his eyes fell upon the valyrian steel sword leaned against the throne, no doubt belonging to the man who sat upon the seat.

The formalities that had been ingrained into him in his youth snapped to the forefront, and he gave a low, scraping bow. “Your Graces,” he murmured, raising his head to find their features softening, now, as they gazed down at him.

“Ah, now, do you see?” Rhaenys spoke with a lilting voice, but Jon sensed it was not completely genuine, a bit of a mask, a persona she was trying to keep. She stepped down the dais, trailed by Visenya, who said nothing. “What a curious lad you are. But such fine manners.” She reached a hand towards him, and he ordered himself to remain still, expecting the finger she tucked under his chin to be icy cold, but it was not. It blazed with heat, and she tipped his head first one way, then the other. His breath was coming in shallow pants, as he allowed her scrutiny. “What say you, sister?”

Visenya, he saw, had ceased her study of him, choosing instead to stand before Ghost. She crouched a bit, and simply stared into the wolf’s eyes. Ghost growled, low in his throat, but did nothing else, and the pair seemed engaged in a battle of wills, until Ghost whined and sat down on his haunches, his mouth falling open and tongue lolling out. Visenya smiled, and reached forward, scratching behind the white, furred triangle of an ear.

“No doubt about it,” Visenya told her sister, in a tight, clipped voice. “Even discounting the obvious, that he’s brought a direwolf with him, there is no mistaking that face. A Stark,” she said flatly, and then turned back to her brother, who was watching them all from his throne. “Don’t you agree, brother?”

Aegon held his tongue, but he stood, at last, and reached for his steel, sheathing it as he descended the stairs. He stood stiffly before Jon, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Jon couldn’t help his wonder as he gazed at the weapon, because it, like the three before him, was the stuff of legend, lost to the ages, or so it was said. “Blackfyre,” he breathed, and as he tore his eyes from the sword, and looked into the man’s face, Aegon chuckled, patting the hilt fondly. “That’s Blackfyre,” Jon said, his fear fleeing as he looked next at the weapon Visenya bore. “And Dark Sister.”

Despite his amusement Aegon tipped his head, ignoring Jon’s words. “Brynden says you are lost, Lord Commander.” Jon stiffened at being addressed as such, his fear returning as he looked down to see himself dressed just as he had been, when that had been his title, so very long ago. The black leathers and furs had draped themself along his body, and he could feel it, then, in his chest, that searing pain as each knife had buried itself deep into his skin, and he fought back a scream. It wasn’t real, he told himself. And he had been raised, whether he wished it or not, cursed with this unnatural life that had followed. “Why do you suppose you are here?”

“I don’t…,” Jon paused, because he doesn’t have any clearer answer to that question than when it had been posed to him days before, “I’m not sure. I don’t know.”

For some reason, that made him far more afraid.

His answer caught Visenya’s attention, and she stopped fussing over Ghost to straighten and shift over, so that she stood shoulder to shoulder with Aegon. She gave him the same hard, intense stare she’d given Ghost, then slowly raised a brow, and turned back to Aegon. “The wolf knows, but the lad does not. How very tragic.”

Jon felt his brow crease. “What do you mean?”

Visenya gave him a measured smile. “Precisely what I said. He brought you here.”

“Why?’ Jon felt confusion mounting, eyes wide as he looked between the Targaryen Queen and his wolf.

She merely shrugged, letting out a huff of laughter, and pushed away from her brother, beginning to ascend the steps that led to the Dragonstone throne. “Ask him.”

Aegon did the same, then, quirking a silver brow and Jon and sighing, then turning, climbing the stairs and taking a seat. However, when Jon looked at the two Conquerors, they were not as they had been. They were older, considerably, their skin greyed, eyes hollow and empty, their finery now molding and decomposed with time.

But Rhaenys remained, young and beautiful, hot fingers caressing his jaw, and Jon flinched. “Tread carefully, Jon Snow. For not all souls here are peaceful, and they do not rest easy.” Then she scratched his cheek, nails sharp, and he yelled and jumped back as he felt blood begin to trail down the marks. She just giggled and licked the blood from her nails, taking a step back.

Ghost snarled, and snapped, but she was beyond reach, climbing the stairs as well, her gown becoming torn and stained with blood. To his horror, when she reached the throne, she did not age, but became mangled and broken, skull caved in, only one eye left to see, arm broken at an odd angle and hanging ponderously at her side, leg bent unnaturally. “A storm is coming,” she rasped.

Jon turned, and ran, as their terrible laughter echoed in his ears.

\------------

“Am I bleeding?’ He was frantic, when he finally found Gendry, fiddling with the camera he was mounting in the East Wing.

Gendry’s head snapped up, and he studied Jon with worry before shaking his head in the negative. “Ah, not that I can tell, Jon. What happened?”

Jon explained, as best he could, his cheek still aching from those phantom scratches, inflamed and raw, as Gendry hastily found a notebook and began to record what had occurred in the throne room.

Then he frowned, and gnawed at the inside of his cheek, brows furrowing. “Odd for you to get this spooked. Are you alright?” He set aside the small recording device, and stepped closer, examining Jon’s face more closely. “Did it hurt? I mean, there’s nothing there, but you’re wincing like you just stepped into a minefield of legos, barefoot.”

“Legos?” 

Gendry waved a hand. “Never mind.” He rubbed at his jaw, thinking. “It’s just strange. They seemed fine at first, yeah?

Jon nodded, and flopped into an uncomfortable chair in the corner of the room, Ghost staying close, now, pressing against his side. “All the others we’ve seen...If they’re going to attack you, they tend to lead with that sort of thing.” She shuddered again, remembering how Rhaenys had tasted his blood. It wasn’t real, he understood that now, but Gods, it had seemed terrifyingly real in the moment.

Gendry looked thoughtful, and took a seat as well, notebook still clenched in his hand. “That’s true,” he said slowly. “Remember when we went to Harrenhal, when those mad fucks kept popping up with axes, trying to take off our heads? Or at night, how they’d scream, and look like their flesh was melting off their bones?” He stopped, and visibly shuddered. “Fucking awful, that was.”

It had been awful, Jon remembered, and frightening, but it had been easier, there, to remember that it was not real, not really. Most angry spirits could not harm directly; they relied on luring their victims into harming themselves, by one means on another. In Dorne, they had encountered a spirit that would lure hapless victims into the water gardens to drown themselves. In the Eyrie, another who would induce visitors unlucky enough to have chosen to stay in the haunted Keep to fling themselves from the famous Moon Door, asleep.

But this place. Gods, this place was different, in a way he couldn’t quite define. It was as though the line between reality and other was blurred and frayed, and still unravelling. Jon felt a chill creep up his spine, though the sun still shone brightly outside. He was tempted to suggest that they leave, but he held his tongue, knowing that doing so would be surrendering to his own fears.

He was no craven, and he would not be cowed by this place, and the spirits that inhabited it.

Gendry was looking at his notes, as Jon was lost in thought, and piped up as his eyes remained locked on his writing. “Let’s go back to what Visenya said. She said Ghost brought you here.” He looked up, bright blue eyes finding Jon’s. “What do you suppose she meant?”

Jon could feel Ghost watching him, and sure enough, when he angled his face over to look, there were a pair of blood-red eyes trained on his face. “Do you have any wisdom to offer?” Ghost just chuffed at Jon’s suggestion, and laid down, curling his big body around the legs of Jon’s chair. Jon sighed and looked back at Gendry. “No idea, I suppose.” He shrugged, but Gendry didn’t seem so keen to dismiss the thought.

“Do you think she knew what you were? A warg?”

The question was asked innocently enough, but Jon stiffed all the same, knuckles whitening on the arm rests he was gripping as he scowled. “And what do you know of wargs?” It was not something they had ever discussed, and as far as Jon could ascertain, that sort of knowledge was long-lost, those born with the particular ability extinct for quite some time.

Gendry raised his hands in surrender, clearly aware of Jon’s irritation. “I meant no offense. It’s just, I know what wargs are, of course, there’s plenty of records, historically speaking, though no one’s quite made up their minds on whether those accounts are true. But you,” he chuckled and gestured towards Jon and Ghost, “How could you not be? They say direwolves are extinct, too, but here we are.”

Jon relaxed, by degrees; Wargs had always inspired suspicion, at least in his experience, but those days were long since past, and his existence was, in many ways, a relic of that past, one that remained, though not by his choice. “Go on, then. You must be going somewhere with this.”

Gendry raised his brows, and sucked in a whistling breath through his teeth, suddenly hesitant. “Well,” he finally answered, “it’s just a theory, but maybe she meant that Ghost knows something you don’t, that we’re here for a specific reason, one he knows.” His eyes flicked to Ghost, then back to Jon. “Coming here was your idea, after all, but maybe, in reality, it was his.”

“Hmmm.” Ghost refused to look at him, asleep, now, by all appearances, but Jon thought it likely the old cur was pretending. “If so, he’s being very coy about it.”

It seemed to Jon that the other man wanted to say more, but he didn’t, instead letting out a heavy breath and scratching at his head. He stood and moved back to his equipment, and gave Jon a friendly, even smile. “I’m sure it’ll get sorted out eventually. In the meantime, why don’t you two stay with me for the day. I haven’t gotten to see a single Targaryen yet, you know?” He placed a hand to his chest, a pretend hurt on his face. “I’m starting to take it personally.”

\-------------

The rest of the day passed quickly, but eventually Gendry begged off to what he had come to call his command center, a small cot set up amid his myriad of screens, monitors all displaying different parts of the Keep.

Jon didn’t care for cots, and there were beds enough scattered around. Eventually, he decided to retire in the room he’d first met the little Princess in. If she happened upon him, at least, he knew she meant him no harm.

He was tempted to keep Ghost with him, but he could still hear the Bloodraven’s warning, and he had no small amount of concern that very real harm might happen to his friend, and so he bid the direwolf to stay, making his way to the room alone.

Laying down on the bed, he stared up at the ceiling, shafts of silver moonlight the only source of brightness in the otherwise dark room, and faded off, into the welcome black darkness.

\-------------

_It is a dream._

_He knows this, as he walks the halls._

_He knows this because he has dreamed this dream before, but he has never known where he was, until now._

_He walks, and walks, and every corridor is a maze, but in this hazy state of mind, it is both seconds, and days. Perhaps he walks forever, but there is something he must find. There is a sense of urgency, rooted deep in his soul, something he has lost, that is HIS, that he must find._

_It is, of course, her._

_Daenerys._

_Even in his mind the name has a taste, on his tongue. It is fire and sweet and spice._

_He has dreamed this dream before, oh yes, but it has been so long that it comes to him, in pieces. It is like reading a book he has read before, a thousand times, but after so long an absence it is like slipping into a warm pool. Inch by inch, degree by degree, as he sinks, the shape of it becomes clearer, more fully-formed._

_Each step brings him closer to it; the memory of the shape of her face, the feel of her warm skin under his hand, the curve of her breast against his palm, the curve of her hip. He realizes, with a start, that he has not dreamed of her since that night, since those knives were driven into his chest, since his terrible rebirth. He wonders if that gaping, dark hole within him is where she had fit._

_Daenerys._

_He is always searching for her, in this dream. He must find her, he is always sure of it, and no matter what the day has brought him, no matter the horrors the world has thrust upon him, no matter the pain, or the grief in his heart, it is always the same when he finds her._

_When Jon finds Daenerys, it all goes away. When he finds her, when he finds the right door, and opens it, she is there, and she smiles so sweetly, and she is so utterly, blindingly perfect. She wraps her arms around him and whispers in his ear, of how she loves him, how she believes in him, when no one else does. He does the same, because she has her own horrors, that much has always been clear._

_But it has been so long, and he feels so lost, because he cannot remember which door belongs to her, anymore._

_It is here, though. He can feel it, that certainty. If he looks hard enough, he will find her._

_The door._

_The red door._

_He gasps as he remembers, but that is what he needs, because the red door means Daenerys, and it is here, at Dragonstone, in this labyrinth full of cobwebs and spirits and darkness. She is the light that pierces it, and she is here, and she, only she, can fix him, make him whole again._

_Daenerys._

_It whispers through his thoughts, like a beacon, and his feet move of their own volition, along a path he cannot see, one that only his steps know._

_And then it is there, right there, and he wants to weep with it, that door of scarlet, with the golden handle._

_He hears a scream, one no being of mere flesh and bone might make, and lets his fingers wrap around the hot metal. He is not afraid. He knows what cries out in the night._

_A dragon._

\-----------

“JON!”

His eyes snapped open, and then closed again as he blinked against the brightness of the morning light, the blurry form of Gendry standing over him, panting, panicked.

He rubbed at his eyes and sat up, slowly, groaning. “What a strange dream,” he mumbled, more to himself than the other man, seeking and finding Ghost, who lay near the hearth, quiet. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s WRONG?” Gendry seemed manic, running his hands through his short, dark hair frantically as he stepped back. “Bloody hells, man, I haven’t seen you in three days! I thought this fucking place, I don’t know, ate you or something?”

Jon’s confusion grew, by the moment, and he stood, frowning. “Ate me? Three days?” He turned and looked back at the bed, then returned his gaze to Gendry’s pale, worried face. “I’ve been here the whole time.”

Gendry gaped, for a second, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air, but whatever his inner turmoil at that answer, he seemed to settle on acceptance rather quickly, face smoothing. Then it hardened, and he made to leave, waving Jon to follow.

By the time they reached their base of operations, that little solar on the first floor, the man seemed to have calmed completely, his earlier concern morphing into a simmering excitement. “What were you dreaming?”

The abrupt question caught Jon by surprise, particularly considering the personal nature of the dreams that preceded it. They were clear in his mind, now, as if this last dream had resurrected the others, and he sat down in his usual chair, Ghost assuming his post, reclined, by Jon’s leg, letting out a happy whine as Jon began to sift a hand through his fur. “It was about a girl.”

Gendry’s brows shot up, and Jon felt his frown deepen as his friend’s eyes began to glint in a very particular way. “Sooooo,” he drew the word out, knowingly, “it was one of THOSE dreams.”

Jon let out a frustrated sound and shook his head. “No, not like that.” Then, as afterthought, he mumbled, “not this time, anway.” He ran his hands along his trousers, swiping off the remaining clamminess from his palms, and sighed. “But I was here. In Dragonstone. And I wandered, Gods, it felt like forever. Looking for something.”

“The girl.” Gendry said it as though it was clear as day, to Jon’s amazement, and he nodded in response.

“Daenerys,” Jon whispered.

“Daenerys?” There was an awed reverence to the way Gendry said that precious name, and it stirred a strange jealousy inside Jon, even as he nodded again, warily. This only seemed to feed Gendry’s endless excitement, and he sprinted to a pile of books stacked against the wall, everything they’d been able to gather about House Targaryen and it’s myriad of progeny over the ages, until their eventual extinction. The thought filled him with melancholy, for a reason unbeknownst to him, though he thought it might be a certain sort of empathy. He was a Snow, yes, but his blood was Stark blood, all the same. And much like the House of Dragons, the House of Wolves had perished as well, so many centuries ago.

Now, all that remained of those Great Houses were places like this, these relics of a time long since past, these old crumbling keeps and the ghosts that wandered through them, restless, searching, and hungry. So, so hungry.

In this place, more than any other he had visited, it was a living thing, this hunger.

Gendry finished rifling through the stack and pulled a book free, shuffling towards the end, eyes scanning the page. “Daenerys of House Targaryen,” he read, excitedly, “only daughter of King Aerys and Queen Rhaella, born 284 AC, at Dragonstone.” His eyes widened as he continued to read. “Bloody hells. Jon, it says here, that Daenerys was born during the greatest storm in a century.” His eyes were sharp when he glanced up from the pages. “What was it that Rhaenys said to you?”

Jon searched his mind then sucked in a surprised breath. “A storm is coming,” he answered, his voice hushed. “A coincidence?”

He doubted that very much, and Gendry obviously did as well, judging by his skeptical expression.

“Visenya told you that Ghost brought you here for a reason, yes? And then Rhaenys says this thing about a storm. And then you dream of her, of Daenerys. Daenerys Stormborn.” He looks down at his book again. “One of what I can only describe as a legion of titles she amassed in her short life.”

It stung at Jon’s very soul, though he understood quite well that Daenerys was dead, had been dead for quite a long time now. He could still remember how real it seemed, when he would hold her, feel her silver hair brush against his skin, like silk. “What happened?”

Jon knew, immediately, that whatever had transpired must have been awful, and he almost begged off, but then Gendry was reading aloud, rather morosely.

“Says here she died in the Dothraki Sea. They found her dragon guarding her bones. Can you imagine?” There was genuine sorrow in Gendry’s voice. “A girl of what? Twenty? Maybe? Dying alone like that, in a strange land.”

Jon felt gutted, because he could imagine. He could imagine it all too well, and in his mind he saw himself, lying in the cold snow, his blood pooling around him, staring up into the night sky. “Aye.”

Gendry squinted at him, then checked his eyes back to the book. “284 A.C. She must have been about your age, yeah? Just a bit younger?”

Jon struggled to pay attention; His mind was torturing him with the image of her beautiful face, wasting away under a harsh, unforgiving sun. His voice had left him, sorrow consuming him, and so he nodded, stiffly.

Something shifted in the other man, some sort of realization that had him speaking almost silently to himself, his words too quiet to be audible. He walked, back and forth, back and forth, and finally, Jon’s irritation overrode his sadness. “Bloody hells, Gendry, what is it?”

Gendry stopped, at the question, and wheeled about sharply, crossing straight to Jon. “Destiny, Jon. That’s what this is about. I think I understand, now. Before, you know,” he stammered, and gestured towards Jon’s chest, “The incident, did you dream of her?”

Some nights, in that cold castle at the Wall, she had been the only thing that kept him warm. “Aye. Started when I left Winterfell, went to swear my oath, take the Black.” A face swam through the haziness of all the things he struggled to remember, the memories time seemed determined to erode. “My uncle. He was there. I remember that.”

Gendry was unsurprised. “Good, yes. Benjen. Benjen Stark.”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “You know of him?”

His friend let out a quiet laugh. “Ah, yes, Jon.” He pointed to another stack of books, readings they had gathered in their travels. “Got a whole history on the Stark, right there.” His eyes narrowed. “You don’t remember?”

Jon felt a flush of shame. Sometimes, it was so very hard to remember. “A thousand years is a long time to wander, Gendry. And most of it, alone. I fear I’ve forgotten more than I care to admit.”

Gendry’s face softened. “I understand. But the point is, I think you’re here for her. Because of her. Daenerys.”

It sounded right, the statement striking a chord within him, a resonance. Yes. He was here because of her. He needed to find her. “She’s behind the red door. We need to find it. Maybe she’s trapped? Maybe I need to set her free?”

Gendry’s head bobbed from side to side. “Maybe.” He wrinkled his face, thinking. “Let’s go find the groundskeeper. If there’s a red door in this Keep, he’ll know where to find it.”

\-------------

Samwell Tarly let out a small scream, dropping the broom he’d been sweeping across the floor near a roped-off artifact. His eyes flew to Ghost, and he clutched a hand over his heart, gripping the fabric of his long robes. “Nearly scared the piece out of me,” he gasped, shuddering, as Ghost slunk into the room, following Jon.

“You don’t need to fear him,” Jon muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and coming closer to the red velvet ropes, strung around the large table, no doubt to keep visitors from pressing their sticky hands across the surface. The placard mounted on the brass stand before it read ‘Aegon’s Painted Table’, and Jon could see that this had been carved by a master craftsman. In exquisite detail, Westeros lay before him. Hills and valleys, mountains and plains, carefully pulled from the wood. It was a thing of beauty, to be sure.

Gendry seemed disinclined to examine it, choosing instead to pepper the portly man with questions. “Could you help us? We’re looking for something. Someone, I suppose.”

Jon glanced over his shoulder to see the groundskeeper frown, but he reluctantly nodded, hands holding tightly to his broom. “I can try. What is it you’re looking for, precisely?”

“Somewhere in this Keep,” Gendry explained, as Jon reached and traced his fingers along the outline of the Reach, “There is a room. A room with a red door. Do you know of it?”

The man’s strangled gasp made Jon turn, again, now completely distracted from that remarkable table altogether. He looked so frightened that it made Jon’s gut twist. “Tell us,” he commanded, his voice booming, and the room itself seemed to rumble at the sound. Samwell choked out a strangled sound, shaking his head.

“You don’t want to find that room. No one goes in that room, the room with the red door. No one goes in, because they never come out.” The man trembled, like a leaf in the wind. “It is death. Has been for centuries, since long before I came to care for this place.”

Gendry huffed. “I understand. But I need to know where it is.”

“Don’t go in that room,” the man warned, his voice shaking, his face pale. “Not ever.”

“Promise,” Gendry said, with such surety that even Jon believed him. And it was true, in the strictest sense. It was Jon who would enter, because he knew, he knew with every fibre of his being that he would find her there. Daenerys. His sweet Daenerys who kissed him like she loved him, even if it had only been in dreams.

Still shaking, the robed man let out a harsh breath, and looked around, grabbing what he sought, finally, a map of the grounds. He spread it out on a nearby table, eyeing them all again before he pulled a pen from some hidden pocket and began to draw. Then he rushed to Gendry and thrust it in his outstretched hand, so eager to be rid of it that it might as well have been on fire.

“Don’t go on there,” he warned once more, and without a look back, he left, door slamming behind him.

Jon glanced back at Gendry, expecting him to look worried, but the man was grinning, studying the map. “Jackpot,” he said, and laughed, and Jon couldn’t help but join in.

\-------------

They found the room precisely where it was circled on the map, deep in the heart of the Keep, down a narrow, soot-stained corridor. There was a dark stain on the stone beneath them, just in front of the threshold, and Gendry let out a low whistle.

“That’s probably not a good sign,” he said, the first stirrings of worry rising in his voice. He sighed and looked at the painted wood, at the ornate gold handle, everything appearing just as it had in Jon’s dream. They were crowded in the small space, Ghost bringing up the rear, and Jon considered their options quickly, then pushed Gendry back, so that the man stood behind Ghost.

“Just in case,” Jon said. Gendry nodded, clearly relieved, and Jon smirked. He wasn’t afraid, not of her. Not of Daenerys. He put his hand on the knob, and found the metal warm to the touch, but absent the searing heat of his dream. “Here we go,” he breathed, and turned the knob.

Or, tried to. It refused to budge. He twisted, and jerked, but still, it would not give.\

“Maybe it’s jammed,” he called to Gendry, and tried once more, summoning every ounce of strength he had, but it was no use. “Or locked.” He crouched, and sure enough, there was a keyhole there. The odd thing, though, was he couldn’t remember if it had been there before. “Aye,” he said, grimly. “Locked.”

Jon turned, when Gendry didn’t respond, but the man was gone. Ghost was gone, as well. He was alone, all alone, and then it was dark, so dark, dark as night, and he was afraid. He backed up, slowly, until he hit the wood, and sucked air through his teeth, trying to stay calm.

A noise sounded, in the distance. Steps.

“Hello?” No answer came, and the air seemed to grow cold, a whistling wind blowing down the hall. He imagined that this was meant to frighten him, but the cold was an old friend. He laughed. “Feels like home,” he called out. A light bloomed, an orange glow in the darkness, and as it grew closer he could hear it sputter and spit. A torch.

Then Jon could see, clearly, and he heaved a sigh and sagged against the door. “Bloodraven,” he whispered.

The man’s face twisted itself into an approximation of pleasantness. “Having a bit of trouble, Lord Commander?”

Jon hung his head, even as the air between them grew sharper, colder. “How do I open this?”

Bryden frowned, his face lite with burnished gold from the flaming torch. “And why would you want to do that?” He paused, for the longest moment Jon had ever experienced, then leaned closer, lowering his voice. “What do you suppose is on the other side?”

The answer was free before he could think to stop it. “Daenerys.” It was the sweetest sound in the world, like music, like a beautiful song that fell from his lips effortlessly.

Bloodraven’s smile was broad, and wide, and deeply disturbing, something eerie in the way those thin lips spread. “Oh, well done. I wasn’t certain you would find this place so quickly. What brought this about?”

Jon didn’t want to answer, but he could swear it was as though he had no choice in the matter. Something about this man’s spirit was pulling the truth from him, willing or not. “A dream. I…,” he swallowed, his mouth dry, “I dreamt of her.”

“Not for the first time, I think.” The man hummed, consideringly, as a tinkling laugh sounded from behind him. His smile grew more genuine, and less ghoulish, as a woman appeared over his shoulder

“Have you grown tired of his endless riddles yet, my Lord?” She swept up beside Brynden in an iridescent white gown, edged in lace so fine it resembled sea foam lapping up onto the shore. A Targaryen, of course, judging by her silver hair, she stroked her finger along the wine-colored stain on Bloodraven’s cheek. “Oh, have pity on him, my sweet. He’s a lost little lamb, set loose amongst all these dragons.” When she turned her face to look away from the man at her side, Jon was surprised to see that she did not possess eyes of the traditional Targaryen purple; No, hers were arresting, one bright green, the other dark blue. Around her neck was a heavy silver necklace, alternating star sapphires and emeralds. She toyed with a gemstone as she gazed at Jon.

“My Lady,” Jon managed, noticing that while she seemed all soft smiles, her eyes were sharp as a knife’s edge. He gave a slight bow.

“Ah,” she sighed, lips twitching. “Now look here, Brynden. Such fine manners, and such a comely face, as well. Perhaps I ought to keep this one for myself. What say you?”

Brynden’s face grew pinched, and aggravated, but Jon didn’t believe it ran deeper than the surface. This felt like an old game, played between two, that he only bore witness to. “Shiera, will you ever tire of this bloody game?” He leaned towards Jon, whispering loudly, as though betraying a long-held secret. “She likes to make me jealous.” He cut his eyes to the beauty at his side, and gave Jon a half-smile. “But you are not for her, and she knows that.”

Jon slashed his hand through the air, the steady wood of the door behind him the only thing anchoring him to reality. “Enough with the games. Tell me how to open the door. Where to find the key.”

The pair before him exchanged a look, and as if they’d planned it, began to laugh. It only further fueled Jon’s frustration and anger, but soon enough it stopped, and the woman grew serious.

She stepped closer, bare feet sliding across the stone, then closer still, until she stood atop the ancient bloodstain that marred the cold floor. Her eyes flew across his face, and when she reached a long-nailed finger to trace along his jaw he felt a very real sense of danger. Her mask fell away, that sweet, soft playfulness gone now. There was only cold calculation now, and it frightened him, the way she seemed to peer directly into the darkest recesses of him.

“Listen to me, boy.” He could feel her cold, dead breath brush his cheek as she strained to whisper in his ear. “She is the lock and you are the key. But this door will remain closed to you until you accept the truth.”

He was pressing himself against the door, now, as if he thought he could push himself through the wood, to get away from her, to get away from THEM, to get to Daenerys. “What truth?” There was no hiding the shakiness in his voice, even though it shamed him. He never cared for showing weakness to these spirits, for there were always some who fed off of fear, and pain, and fright.

The smile Shiera gave him held no kindness. “About yourself, Jon Snow.”

Bryden cleared his throat from over her shoulder. “Two truths, it is. One you know and cannot bear, the other hidden from you for your own protection.” He came to stand just beside the woman, and regarded Jon somberly. “Both of which you must accept if you want to set her free.”

Jon’s jaw clenched, and he felt his fist bang into the wooden door, beside his leg. “Then fucking TELL ME!” Gods help him, he was growing weary of these games. Before now they had not been so personal, but this was, and he was tired of playing them.

She tapped against his temple, and he flinched away. “Remember. It’s there, the truth about what you are. It’s there, but you don’t want to see it. But you must. You will never know peace until you face it.”

He was furious, now, at this play-acting, this refusal to just tell him the things he allegedly must know. He opened his mouth to vent that anger, but a cold wind whipped across his face like a slap, and they were gone, the pair of them, replaced by a clearly startled Gendry and a whimpering direwolf.

“Jon,” Gendry whispered, still as a stone, only his eyes moving as they darted around, as if he were inspecting Jon for injury. “What in the bloody hells just happened? Where did you go? What was that?"

He sagged forward, head hanging, hand blindly reaching for Ghost as the wolf crept forward. “I wish I knew,” he said morosely. “I wish I knew.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon encounters more spirits, at Dragonstone, and faces truths about himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are again, with another fic that I intended as a two-parter that morphs into three. Hopefully you will be as willing to indulge me with your patience on this as you were with 'Art of Deduction'. To tell this the way I wanted, though, required more words than I anticipated. That's just the way shit goes, I guess. Part Three will follow next week, as we finally wrap this little story up and I get back to cracking away on the other WIPs haunting me on my Google drive. Thank you for reading!

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Jon is dreaming._

_He knows this as he always has, but it is not unwelcome, this respite from the confusion of the outside world._

_Here is peace._

_Here is Daenerys._

_He opens the door, the red painted door, and steps inside. In his dreams, it opens for him, only for him._

_Does he know this room? He isn’t sure. He does not know where this room truly is, but his wonderings flee from his mind when he spies her, at the center of the bathing chamber, submerged to her shoulders in water that laps gently at her skin with every shift of her body._

_“Jon.” She sounds so pleased, so happy to see him, and before he knows it he is grinning at her, his usual frown forgotten the moment she glances his way. “There you are.” She slides a hand across the top of the water, then gives him a pointed look. “Won’t you join me?”_

_He is not sure he actually rid himself of his clothes, but before he knows it, they are gone, and he walks to where she bathes, uncaring of his nudity. He has no need for shyness around her. In his dreams, they have loved each other completely. In his dreams, she knows his skin, his shape, as well as he knows hers._

_Petal pink lips split into a smile as he steps into the steaming waters, and he thinks he will never be cold again, here, with her. But even as his heart begins an eager, lusty rhythm in his chest her face falls, as he sinks into the bath. It is his chest that has caught her attention, and even Jon is surprised, because these scars have never followed him into his dreams before._

_“Oh, no.” She shakes, and looks as though she will weap, or scream, or both, as she reaches trembling fingers to his heart. “No, no, no. Oh, my poor Jon, what have they done to you?” Now she begins to cry, chin quivering, tears streaking down her cheeks and falling into the waters below. “Jon,” she moans, and it is a mournful sound._

_Jon catches her hand and raises it to his lips, kissing each knuckle gently. “It doesn’t matter.”_

_But his sweet, lovely Daenerys will not be dissuaded, and her eyes begin to burn with rage. Around their bodies, the water begins to boil. “They took you from me. They took you and kept you and I have missed you, every day, Jon, every day I have waited but you never come, you never come!”_

_He cannot feel anything. He does not feel fear, or the searing heat of the water that grows ever hotter with her escalating anger and sorrow. He only feels her hand in his, because that is what is right, that is what he has been missing for so long. Hers is a terrible beauty, power rolling from her in waves that slosh the water from the sides of the basin, and outside the day becomes a dark, impenetrable night._

_He is not afraid of her. Never of her._

_So he wraps his arms around her, pulls her closer, feels the hot spill of her tears as they drop onto his ruined chest. She rages and he holds her, tighter, until her muscles begin to unclench, until she has wrapped her arms around him as well, her nails pricking his skin where she grasps at him. He lowers his head as she raises hers, and then he is kissing her, and he is burning, a cleansing fire that rids him of everything that has come before this moment, before her._

_His is gasping for air when he pulls away, and she gazes up at him adoringly, miserably. “Find me,” she whispers, urgently. “Find me, Jon.”_

_“How?” His voice sounds broken, even to his own ears, because he wants her more than he has ever wanted anything in his long, unnatural life, but he does not know what they want from him._

_She leans away, just far enough to place her open hand over his heart. “Remember. That is the first step. Take it.”_

\-------------

Jon woke, choking on his own breath, cough and sputtering as his mind raced.

He felt like he was going mad.

It was this place. It was doing things to him, things he could not control, could not explain. But why? Why would some Northern bastard be affected so? He rubbed at his temples, and glanced over to the doorway, where Ghost’s large body lay as if he meant to keep that door closed, no matter what.

But Jon was done with that. He was tired of closed doors, and he could sleep no more. He stood, and pulled on his boots, and whistled to the wolf.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

He had no direction in mind, and so he wandered, up one floor and down another, no real sense of his destination. It must have been hours that he walked, with Ghost trailing behind, until finally he found himself outside, just as the sun began to peek above the horizon. It was a breathtaking sunrise, all blues and pinks and a band of gold emerging in the distance, and he made his way down the stone steps to a small landing.

Jon felt them, before he saw them, but unlike some of his previous encounters there was little but a heavy, warm sense of peace that swept over him. Cautiously, he turned his head, to find his guests standing beside him, staring out at the sunrise, together. The first, nearest him, was an elderly man, but regal, noble, silver hair cut just to his shoulders and swept back from his face. He was cloaked in scarlet and black, a simple ebony tunic and trousers, and fine calfskin boots. Though his face was lined, there was a joyfulness there that lent the spirit an air of youthfulness.

“What a beautiful sunrise,” the man murmured, then turned to Jon and smiled. “It’s my favorite time of day. Always has been. The birth of a new day, full of possibilities. Especially here.” He reached down with his right hand and patted the low stone wall before them fondly. “My favorite time of day, at my favorite place on this island.”

Jon couldn’t help but smile in return. The man’s happiness was infectious. The girl at his side, more maid than woman, said nothing at first, but then glanced Jon’s way, lips twitching. “He’s got a poet’s heart, my father.”

With a chuckle, Jon turned to the side, to face the pair more fully, realizing he should observe formalities, as he had with all the rest. “I beg your pardon,” he says, with a slight bow, “My name is--”

The maid with her arm twined through her father’s raised her hand, the billowy sleeves of her sheer white gown rippling in the wind. Like her father, she was dressed simply, but there was the same air about her, that highborn way of carrying herself, that had always made Jon feel lesser as a boy. “We know who you are, Jon Snow,” she said sweetly. “We’re glad you’re here, at last.”

The old man made a sound of agreement, and without warning, reached over, clapping a hand onto Jon’s shoulder. “You’ve certainly kept us waiting,” he said, with a gentle chiding in his voice, eyes dancing. “But it couldn’t be helped. It wasn’t your doing, I see that now.” His daughter nudged at his side, and he cleared his throat. “Goodness, I fear I’ve forgotten my manners. I am Aenar, and this is my daughter, Daenys.”

Jon’s eyes widened comically, when it hit him, who that made was, because everyone knew that tale, highborn and smallfolk alike. Everyone knew of the girl who had dreamed of the Doom of Valyria, had fled with her family to this very island to escape the fate that had claimed their people. Only House Targaryen had survived, because of her.

“Daenys the Dreamer,” he whispered, awed. “You’re Daenys the Dreamer.”

The girl raised a slender brow to her father. “He’s brighter than he looks, father.” Jon was left with little time to be offended, as the man clasping his shoulder turned him, physically, to face the Keep that towered above them, painting gold by the rising sun.

“There is little magic left in this world anymore, Jon Snow. That age ended long ago, an age where dragons roamed the skies, and there were Kings, and Queens, and noble knights and fair maidens.” He pointed a long, gnarled finger towards the bottom of the stone walls that seemed to spring up from the earth. “But here, there is still a taste of it. The magic that binds us here, the dragon-blooded, the last to remain after Valyria was lost.” He sighed, and turned his face to the sky. “I had a dragon, once. A great red-scaled beast, ancient when he became mine. He had served our line for centuries, already, and when we fled, when we reached these shores, I knew he was not long for the world.”

Jon tried to imagine such a thing, such massive creatures, and in his mind there was a dragon, but it was not this red-scaled beast. It was black, and fierce, and as he watched it rained down fire on an army below. Where that fire struck the snow below there was nothing but black glass left behind. It seemed to him that he must have dreamed this, but he couldn’t remember when.

Aenar checked his eyes to Jon, then looked back to the Keep, with the fondness a parent might show a child. “When he died, we had just chosen the location for the Keep. And so it was that his flesh was laid to rest below the first stones set, the very foundation of our home. His blood was drained and stored, his bones ground into dust, as were his scales. There is no single brick laid here that does not carry him inside it.”

Magic, Jon realized. He had suspected it, but the very notion would be scoffed at now. These people that roamed Westeros, with their electronics and their petrol-powered cars and their self-contained lives would never believe in such a thing. Jon remembered, though. Jon remembered, difficult as it was at times to peer through the fog of time that clouded most recollections, an age where things were very different. “Dragons are fire made flesh,” he said quietly, his eyes studying the sharp ridges and peaks where dark stone met the morning sky.

“That’s right,” Aenar intoned, but there was a strange grimness to his tone, a sadness in the maid Daenys’s eyes as father and daughter stared, together, at the Keep. “A home, a sanctuary, a tomb. A magic to bind us all together, forever, forged in fire and blood. Such was the custom of Old Valyria.” He spread his fingers and raised them, gesturing from one end of the imposing fortress to the other. “Not just our home, but a living thing, in its own right. But dragons are greedy, Jon Snow. We always have been. The Keep calls our souls home, and it does not like to be denied. But I think, at last, the balance shall be restored. Finally, you’ve come.”

Jon’s head whipped around, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t,” he paused, licking his lips which now felt cracked and dry, his mouth parched. “I don’t understand, my Lord.”

Aenar studied him silently, but it was Daenys who answered, leaving her father’s side to stand before Jon. “Why are you here? Do you know?”

“To set her free. Daenerys.”

The girl’s lips curled up in amusement. “She is not trapped by anything other than her own grief, Jon Snow. Her exile, behind her red door, that is her choice. She mourns, even now. The life she could have had, the life you might have had together.” Daenys seemed overwhelmed with sadness, and took his hands. “However, it is true that you will finally draw her from that room, free her from her solitude.” She leaned close. To Jon, she smelt of fire, and the sea. “Free yourself, as well.”

“I am no prisoner,” Jon insisted, looking between the two.

Aenar didn’t tear his eyes from the Keep as he answered. “You are,” he murmured. “But not for much longer. I suspect the answers you seek will find you soon enough.”

They gave him no time to question them further, words dying on his tongue as they simply faded out of existence, as if they’d never been there at all.

Jon sighed, and sagged, and finally, with an irritated huff, set himself down, leaning against the ledge wall. Ghost crept over and laid his great head in Jon’s lap, as they pondered, together, just what they ought to do.

————-

Gendry’s mounting frustration that no spirits deigned to reveal themselves to him was clear, to Jon, but still, he steadfastly documented every encounter, excited despite himself at the growing mystery that seemed to evolve by the day.

For his part, Jon was less enthused. He felt as though he were enveloped in a great fog, one that made each day following his encounter at the ledge pass in a formless, shapeless daze. He simply existed, lost in his own mind.

But as he did, he realized something, that filled him with, if not joy, a deep and abiding relief.

He could remember them, clearly, at last. His family. The Starks.

Over the centuries their faces had faded from his mind, sometimes their names as well. Since Gendry’s arrival, every now and then, the man would read aloud passages of the Stark histories that he had, and on occasion those would spark a particular memory, dredged from the depths of Jon’s consciousness, ones that would make him smile, would make him want to weep.

Robb’s fate, in particular, was like another knife to the heart, the desecration of his body, of his wolf, in the Riverlands stirring a particular rage.

At the mention of Arya he would smile, and if he focused, if he tuned out Gendry’s words and concentrated hard enough, he could see his little sister’s face, could see the blade he’d had Mikken forge for her. Needle. She’d called it Needle.

But those were small snatches of a life lived long ago, and they always fled him, in the hours that followed.

Things were different, now. There was something about this place, that had formed a sort of net in his mind, one that would catch these memories and hold them tight, so that Jon might raise them, examine their wriggling forms, store them away.

He could, at last, remember the face of his father.

And over the days that seem to blend from one to the next, they were blissfully alone, and Jon would break free from this fog long enough to detail what he remembered. He recalled, as Gendry scribbled away, the first execution he’d witnessed, as a boy of eight, how Eddard Stark had ordered he and Robb not to look away, how they must bear witness.

He recalled feasts and lean times, and Lady Stark’s endless coldness.

He recalled the day he’d met Ghost, of the lifeless body of the mother, gored by a stag. He remembered, with new clarity, the litter that had been gifted to House Stark. He listed their names, and who they’d belonged to, and he found, as he spoke, that where there had once been an overwhelming pain that accompanied such memories, it seemed to fade, the more he talked.

Jon spoke, with a slight smile, of how he’d begged Benjen to sway his father, to let him take the black, to let him join the Night’s Watch. He realized, now, just why Benjen had tried to talk him out of it, but Jon had been stubborn, clinging to his illusions, convinced he might find honor in that order.

“I think, perhaps, I’ve tried to hide these things away from myself, in my mind.” 

Gendry looked up, then, his eyes meeting Jon’s. “It must be hard, to remember them, to talk about them.”

Jon nodded, and frowned. “Maybe once. But it’s easier, here, to remember. Doesn’t hurt so much. I wonder why that is?”

Gendry seemed to consider the question very seriously. He laid down his pen and paper, and folded his hands together on his lap. “I think perhaps it’s just time, Jon. Time to remember all of it.”

Jon’s brows pinched together. “What do you mean?”

He heard the man’s exhale, saw the heavy expression on his face, didn’t care for the way the man seemed to be keeping his own secrets. “I think there are some truths that are too hard to bear, too much to take. Not just for you, but for everyone. And we choose not to think of them, to bury them away, so we don’t have to look at them. For most people, it finds us again, eventually. Not everyone has the luxury of time to let them fade. But it’s here, I think. You’ll have to face it, to accept it. It’s the only way to find some peace.”

Jon leaned forward, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What are you not telling me?”

The other man’s lips parted, his eyes shining not with his usual amusement, but a great amount of fear. Then they widened, and he grew still, one hand raising from his lap to point over Jon’s shoulder, near the open doorway. “We have company.”

Jon swallowed, throat bobbing, and turned slowly to see a small figure standing there, just past the threshold.

The little Princess Rhaenys was not a horror, today. She appeared whole, intact, black hair shining and styled into a neat braid, her gown clean and white and inlaid with small pearls around the neck and the hem.

Jon smiled at the girl, and then faced Gendry. “Can you see her?”

Gendry nodded, silently, acting as though he thought the girl might vanish if he made a sound.

Jon stood, and swept himself into a slow bow, grinning at the girl when he straightened as he saw her give a soundless laugh and clap her hand over her mouth. “Princess,” he said. “Is there something you need?”

She stepped back, giving them each a long lingering look, then waved her hand, beckoning them.

“Me as well?” Gendry seemed to find his voice at last, and from his periphery Jon saw the man pump a fist in the air, victorious, when the girl nodded her assent. He scrambled to find the chest mount for a camera he could wear, fitting the device in and clicking the fastenings. Quickly he rushed over to find Jon, muttering a quiet “It’s about time.”

\------------

They were led to a part of the Keep they had not yet explored, up and up and up, to the highest point, a tower that housed several rooms. All the doors were closed, however, and as they passed the first set, all three jumped at a sudden, loud banging.

From his left, Jon saw the wooden door rattling, as it was struck again, and again. To his right, the same, but this was accompanied by an agonized scream.

“Bloody hells.” Gendry sounded alarmed, over his shoulder. The same happened as they passed the next set of doors, and from behind Gendry Ghost let out a low, warning growl.

The hand hanging at Jon’s side was filled, suddenly, his fingers gripped tightly by a small, warm set. Rhaenys looked up at him, gave him a reassuring smile, and walked faster.

By the third set of doors the hallway was but a cacophony of eerie, terrible sound, wails and moans and rattling doors, until Gendry screamed.

Jon wheeled around to find the man stock still, trembling, pointing at the space they had just covered. “Blood! Blood on the floor!” He turned to Jon, panicked. “We should go back, Jon. I don’t like this one fucking bit.”

“Gendry,” Jon said slowly, “There’s nothing there, lad.”

The other man was sucking air, backing away, from some river of blood that didn’t exist. “It’s everywhere, Jon. Everywhere. You don’t see it?”

A hair-raising wail sounded. “Gendry,” Jon whispered, “Look at me. Just at me.”

It was a battle, but Gendry managed, pale as milk now in the dim light.

“They’re just trying to scare you, Gendry. It’s not real.”

His breathing was rough and harsh, scraping out with each rise and fall of the man’s chest. “Right,” he said, shuddering, fighting to straighten himself. “It’s not real.”

“It’s not real,” Jon repeated again, a promise. “Don’t look back. Only forward.”

Gendry nodded, stiffly, though his chin quivered. “Right, forward.” His eyes darted around, still panicked. “But let’s hurry.”

There was a lone door ahead of them that no doubt led to the tower room, visible even from the outside, set atop the Keep. As they approached, the door creaked, and opened, seemingly on its own.

“That’s properly creepy,” he heard Gendry whisper. Jon peeked down at Rhaenys, somewhat calmed that the girl seemed unafraid. A sliver of daylight was visible, and so Jon pressed on, placing his free hand flat on the door and pushing it open, to reveal what was hidden within.

They walked into the room, the trio of them, greeted by the sight of a trio in return, as the door slammed shut behind them.

Jon surveyed the occupants, his eyes first finding Bloodraven, his eye covered with a patch, his face grim. The man near the window he did not recognize, but he was certainly Targaryen, that much was clear. He had long silver hair that hung down past his shoulders, and was dressed in a set of ornate plate mail, pitch black, set with rubies on the chest plate.

Something tickled in his mind, but he ignored it, in favor of the man who sat in an upholstered wooden chair, clad in dark robes, Maester’s chain around his neck. It came flooding back, his memories of this man, this secret Targaryen who’d lived to a ripe old age, hidden away at Castle Black, all but forgotten.

But not to Jon.

Jon remembered, and he was amazed to see that the man’s eyes were no longer a milky white, but a pale, watery amethyst. He was old, yes, but not as he had been, white still covering his head, his wrinkled face lighting up with a delighted smile as he looked towards Jon.

“Maester Aemon!” He knew he sounded breathless, and for a heartbeat he felt rooted to the spot, but then the man stood, robes sweeping around him, and his smile was like the sun on Jon’s face. Nothing hidden underneath, no deception, no guile, just welcome. Just joy.

Aemon stood, arms outstretched. “Come here to me, Lord Commander. Let me see you, now that I have eyes to see.”

It was like being surrounded by fire, being shrouded by warmth, as Jon rushed forward, uncaring, into the man’s embrace. He felt tears spring to life in his eyes, but he did not fight them, not this time.

Gnarled hands rose, as Jon pulled away, the old Maester’s hands tracing his face, cradling his jaws. “What a fine young man.” He patted Jon’s cheek with wizened fingers, as Jon sniffled, and looked over Jon’s shoulder. “The image of her, isn’t he?”

“Quite,” came the answer, from the long-haired man by the window, but Jon could not pay much heed, could only look again at Aemon, in shock, heart beating like a wild bird in his chest.

“My mother?” Aemon’s hands drew back, and he nodded, but the joy in his features had departed, replaced by a deep sorrow. “You know of her? Who she is?”

Aemon looked at the other two men, then back at Jon, and kissed his teeth. “A tragic story, I’m afraid.”

Bryden’s voice echoed around the room as he spoke next. “The truth that has been hidden from you, the great and awful lie told to protect you, to keep you safe.” He scoffed, then, angry. “For all the good it did.”

The man by the window spoke again, something haunting about his voice, as it reached Jon’s ears. “Show him. Show him the truth. ‘Tis better to see it for himself, than to be told.”

Jon scowled, turning fully to face the man. “Who are you? Why are you here? They are known to me,” Jon gestured with a finger towards Brynden and Aemon, “But you, my Lord, are not.”

For a moment, the man said nothing, swallowing several times, like the words he wanted were lodged in his throat. It was Bloodraven who came to his rescue, crossing the room to stand beside the suddenly mute spirit. “You stand in the presence of Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, Heir to the Iron Throne.” Then Bryden tutted under his breath. “Or at least he was, before Robert lay him low at the Trident.”

That name, it stirred something in him, and that tickle in his mind became an angry shout. “Rhaegar,” he spit, because he remembered well enough. That name had been forbidden in his father’s house. He knew what the man had done, and he spared no vitriol in his answer. “You dare face me? After what you did to my aunt? To House Stark?”

“Jon,” Gendry piped up, tentatively, but Jon would not be swayed, was pleased at how the silver-haired prince seemed to recoil.

“You kidnapped her.” The words struck the man again, like a blow. “You raped her.”

That seemed to finally spur Rhaegar into motion. “No,” he rasped, but there was iron in his voice. “No, I never did. That lie was told by Robert, but it was never true.” He came closer, as Jon backed away. “I would never have hurt Lyanna. I loved her.”

Jon shook his head, anger flooding him. “You stole her. That bloody war started because of YOU!”

He was trembling with rage, pointing an accusing finger at the man who now hung his head, studying his fine boots. But as Jon watched, he changed, still clad in plate, but a gaping wound forming at his chest, ruining the surface of that fine armor, rubies spilling into the floor. He raised his head, aggrieved, and met Jon’s eyes. “I didn’t steal her. But you are right, I suppose, in that much of what followed was my fault. All that death, and destruction. All that ruin.” He glanced off into the corner, staring at some unknown thing, then heaved a sigh. “Show him, Bryden, I implore you.”

Jon found his own chest heaving, as he searched for and found Bloodraven’s weary, solemn face.

“Come here, boy.”

Jon was afraid. Of what, he was not sure, only that whatever it was he was meant to be shown was something he might be better off not knowing.

But then he heard that sweet name, in his mind, that whisper of who was waiting for him, behind that red door. 

_Daenerys._

He would be brave, for her, but he couldn’t shake the suffocating sense of dread as he reached for Brynden’s proffered hand. Aemon came to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and gave a comforting squeeze to Jon’s forearm. “It’s time to wake up now, Jon. Time to know the truth, at last.” Jon hesitated, the sight of Bryden’s bony white fingers reminding him, scarily, of the knobby roots of the Weirwood Tree in the Godswood of Winterfell. “Trust me,’ Aemon whispered, and Jon relented.

He touched Bryden’s hand.

And everything changed.

They were standing in a place he did not know, a place of red sand and unyielding heat, as Jon spun around. In the distance, men fought, swords clashing, glinting in the sun, until one was defeated, a sword driven through his back.

It was not until the deed was done, until the man who had been dueling the dead man drew closer, that Jon realized who it was.

Ned Stark.

Younger, yes, but he knew his father’s face.

He watched, as his father’s attention was drawn, quickly, by a scream from the tower just beyond. A woman’s scream, he realized, and whipped his head towards Bryden, who stood flanked by the other Targaryens, all watching Jon with curiosity and trepidation.

Ned Stark began to run, and Bryden waved his hand. “Follow him.”

Jon obeyed, but reluctantly, realizing they were following him, but from a distance. He was surprised to see Gendry and Ghost trailing even further, raised his brows questioningly towards Bloodraven, who just shrugged and gave a sour smile. “Someone must bear witness,” he intoned, then jerked his head forward. “Keep up.”

His limbs began to shake, his sense of foreboding only growing, but his feet were compelled by a force he was not convinced belonged to him. Step by step, closer to Ned’s destination, but Jon’s dread would not relent. It was a heavy stone in his gut, as he scaled the stairs, following this memory of his father into the small Keep, up and through doorways, that same scream guiding both men.

When Ned disappeared through the door, Jon stopped, closing his eyes, knowing that what came next would be etched, indelibly, on his mind. He wasn’t sure he was ready, but another grunt from Bloodraven was enough to push him forward. If nothing else, he would not be craven, not before these men, nor Gendry, nor his wolf.

He stepped over the threshold, and froze, at the sight before him.

There was his father, crouched beside a bed of blood, a pale, dark-haired young woman laid upon it. She must be near death, Jon thought. There was so much blood, smeared on the bedding, soaking her thin gown, and he could see on Ned’s younger face how shaken his was by it.

Then Ned said her name, and Jon’s knees began to buckle. “Lyanna.”

Jon felt himself bustled further into the room, feeling as though the walls were closing in, the dusty air filling his nostrils, the heat sweltering, but he could not look away, had to go closer, had to hear what they were saying. For there, on the bed, on the edge of death, was his aunt, the one his father could never bring himself to speak of.

He could see why, in an instant, saw the mixture of love and heartbreak on his father’s face. He took his sister’s hand anyway, as the poor woman blinked heavy eyes, questioning blindly as to whether it could really be him, there.

He saw Ned panic, begging the maids in the room for water, for aid, for anything, but then Lyanna took his hand, and beseeched him to listen.

“Listen! Ned, just listen!” She must have mustered all the strength she had, and she pulled Ned closer. Despite his fears, despite his confusion, Jon moved closer too, and just caught the whisper Lyanna let loose.

“His name is Aegon Targaryen.”

Jon looked to his left, where Bloodraven and Rhaegar stood, the former stern and solemn, the later looking as though he might break apart completely, his eyes trained only on Lyanna. “What is she talking about?”

“Shhh.” Bloodraven admonished him, them gestured towards his dying aunt. “Listen.”

He could hear each heavy exhalation of breath, but the woman’s whisper was still loud enough, somehow, loud enough to be heard. “You have to protect him.” The smell of blood was close to choking him, copper and sickly sweet, and he fought the urge to back away. “If Robert finds out, he’ll kill him, you know he will.”

Then he heard it, just as Ned clearly did.

A babe cried, from the corner of the room, and it was the oddest sensation, his shock mingled with the pressure of the woman who bore a swaddled bundle, passing through Jon completely to place the babe in Ned’s arms.

And he knew.

He knew.

“No,” he whispered, to himself.

“Promise me, Ned,” the woman on the bed begged. “Promise me!”

Jon stood, backing away, not wanting to look into the face of that little babe in Ned’s arms. It was too much, the blood, the woman, the babe…

The truth. It was squeezing at him, pushing him from all sides, forcing his whole existence through the eye of a needle, forever twisted into something he did not recognize.

“NO!”

It had been a lie, all of it. His life was a lie.

It was him, lying there in Ned Stark’s arms, just born and letting out a gurgling cry. It was his mother who lay there, dying, pleading for her brother to protect him from Robert Baratheon.

And Jon’s father who’d sired him, stood just over Ned Stark’s shoulder, shaking in silent sobs, whispering his mother’s name over and over in a whisper so loud it might well have been a scream.

“Lyanna. Oh, my poor Lya. Lyanna, Lyanna.”

Jon couldn’t take it. He was full of a rage that threatened to burn him from within, of a grief so sharp it was a thousand knives in his chest, like he was being torn to shreds, blade by blade.

He turned to Aemon, who stood beside Brynden, an arm out to hold Gendry back, as if he thought the man might interfere. “Did you know?” The old Maester said nothing at first, just avoided Jon’s eyes. He pressed on, louder, angrier by the second. “DID YOU KNOW?”

The stricken look on the Maester’s face told Jon all he needed to know; the broken “yes” that issued from the man’s lips was unnecessary confirmation.

He felt his face twist, shook his head, as if that might toss this unwanted truth aside, but it did not. Jon had heard enough, seen enough, could not take another moment bearing witness to the mother his birth had killed slowly bleeding to death.

Jon turned, and ran.

He ran, lungs blazing, heart broken, and ran, and that accursed Dornish tower became Dragonstone once more, but still, he was stifled, suffocating on his grief, those slate-walled corridors mocking him.

He did not stop until he was outside, under a sky full of stars, but there was no peace here, either.

Jon limped his way to the stone ledge, and collapsed, numb and hollow, a shadow of himself. So much was swirling through him, roiling away, like the churning seas beyond the cliffs. Thunder rumbled through the sky.

“A storm is coming,” he whispered to himself.

But there was a storm within him, one that was tainted with betrayal. All he could see was his father’s face, but that bitter edge soured his tongue, because Ned Stark was not his father. Ned Stark had hidden the truth Jon’s entire life. Jon had lived with the stain of being Ned Stark’s bastard, the man’s living shame, and it had never been true at all.

_You may not have my name, but you have my blood. The next time we see each other, we’ll talk about your mother._

Jon scoffed, hands balling into fists, striking the stone behind his back. Had he meant it? Had he really meant to tell him? Or had that been yet another lie, like so many Jon’s life had been built on?

He closed his eyes and let his head thump back onto the stone, weary, morose, tired to his very bones. He could hear, slowly approaching, the soft padding steps of Ghost, and he smiled in spite of himself.

Jon could not bear to be around another, right now, but Ghost was different. Ghost was a part of him. A solid weight settled upon his lap, and his fingers uncurled, digging into that slick white fur. He looked down, finally, to find Ghost’s red eyes locked onto his face. And it clicked, in that moment, what Visenya had meant.

Ghost had known, too.

“Is this why you brought me here? Is this why I’m here, boy?”

Ghost whined at Jon’s pitiful question, his fringed tail swinging slightly.

“I’m one of them.”

Another low whine, this one forlorn, accepting. Ghost averted his eyes and snuffled. Whatever it was that was shared between his soul and Ghost’s was beyond his comprehension, most day, a sort of knowing that required no words, merely intuition.

“Aye,” he said, the words the wolf couldn’t form. “I’m one of them.”

He stared up, utterly, hopelessly lost, at the darkened Keep, not capable of mustering even a hint of surprise as each window seemed to glow with light, all at once, row after row and floor after floor, until it seemed ignited by some inner fire.

It called to him, welcomed him, but he didn’t want it, not now. He wanted to brood, wallow in his sorrow, in what it all meant. He was good at it, exceedingly so. Jon closed his eyes.

They did not open again for some time, but when they did, the sun had risen once more, and Jon was not alone.

Someone stood before him, silent, worn boots that connected to fitted breeches, which met a leather gambeson around the thighs. Heavy furs shrouded this body, so reminiscent of his father’s own furs (not his father’s, his mind reminded him cruelly, his Uncle’s) that his breath caught. 

His eyes travelled higher, to the gorget at the neck, the familiar Stark wolf (I’m not a Stark, hissed his heart) embossed onto each side. He didn’t want to look up, sure he knew the face he would see.

Then he stiffened, in shock, or disbelief; it was hard to tell. But he knew for a certain that the last face he expected to see was his own, glowering down at him.

“Get up.” It was his voice, as well, laced with disgust. “Look at you, crawling around, sniveling like a craven boy. GET UP!”

Jon’s own lips twisted, eyes narrowing as he looked this doppelganger up and down, standing only to grab at the top of the gorget with both hands, furious. “What is this? What are you playing at? Why do you wear my face?”

He spit each word, but his scornful face only glared back at him. “I’m you, you bloody idiot.” Jon’s hands were shoved back, and they regarded each other for a long moment. “Not that I’m proud of that. We’ve wandered this realm for a thousand years now, and you still react like a green boy.” He watched himself scoff, then hung his head, shame flushing his face. “He was right, you know.”

Jon’s head snapped up. “Who?”

His own eyes were hard, gray steel, sharp enough to cut, staring back at him. “Maester Aemon. ‘Kill the boy. Kill the boy and let the man be born.’ But you can’t, can you? How long will it take? Before you face it?”

Jon shoved, hard, all that anger and rage and pain finally pushing him to his limit. He looked around, quickly, searching for Ghost’s reassuring presence, but the wolf was nowhere to be found.

“Just you and me, in our little prison, Jon. Just you, in your denial, and me, begging you, pleading with you, to end this. Set us free.” He saw himself stalk forward, equally furious, and then he was grabbed by his shoulders. “Remember.”

“I can’t.” Was that true? The words spilled free but he didn’t remember forming them.

“You don’t want to.” He was shaken, roughly. “But I’m done. I’m tired. It’s over, Jon.” He was released, but not for long. This version of himself, that stood before him, ripped off a black leather glove, his own face set in determination as it regarded him. “It’s time for you to remember.”

Then a thumb shoved into the center of his forehead, and the world went dark.

\-----------------

_There is cold, and dark, and Jon is afraid._

_He is alone, now, save for that vicious voice in his head, his own voice, spurring him onward._

_Then he hears it, those taunting cries, over and over, and he crouches, cupping his hands over his ears, as though he can keep it out, stop it from happening, but he is powerless here._

_“For the Watch!”_

_Olly’s voice._

_He shudders, and he tries not to see, but he must. There is no more darkness. There are guttering torches and his brothers, crowded around him as he dies, snarling and snapping like a pack of wolves as he bleeds out into the snow._

_Oh, yes, Jon remembers._

_The first blade had hurt. It had burned like fire, seared through his skin and muscle and bone._

_But by the fourth, he had stopped feeling at all._

_He comes closer, sees his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky, knows that the body laying there sees nothing at all. It is a beautiful night, just as he remembers. There comes a loud crashing, a forlorn howl, and this surprises him, this he does not remember at all._

_It is Ghost, and he is lumbering through the men gathered, shoving them aside, trying to get to him, all fangs and claws and hateful, terrible anger._

_They scatter, these traitors, as Ghost comes close, as he noses at Jon’s body and lets out a low, mournful whine. Then Jon sees it. He is not dead yet, he realizes, sees his own hand twitch on the snow._

_Ghost stiffens, and shudders._

_And then Jon knows. He has seen this, once before._

_He knows what he did, now, that night in the snow, as he lay dying._

_He warged into Ghost._

_Oren had done the same, hadn’t he? Had warged into that blasted eagle of his, left Jon with the scar across his eye, one last gift in parting?_

_Jon hadn’t meant to do it, but he had all the same, and as he watches Ghost wheels around, now, chasing off the few black brothers who remain, as Davos and the Red Woman appear, followed by a dejected Edd._

_They gather Jon’s body, and they take him inside, and Ghost follows._

_Perhaps that was how she’d done it. That woman had been able to bring him back because he’d never really left, had burrowed down deep within his wolf._

_‘No’, comes that voice in his head. ‘That’s not what happened.’_

_He shakes his head, thinking it will brush that voice away, but it persists._

_He follows Ghost._

_He sees, then, how the woman chants over his body, begging her Red God to restore him to his dead flesh, sees how deeply it has wounded Davos, the loss of him. And perhaps it was that Ned Stark raised him, but he had been a boy then. In Davos there had lived a kindness, a warmth, that Ned Stark had rarely shown, and Jon is choked with grief when he sees how desperately Davos pleads with the woman._

_It is days, and hope has fled them all, and there is no one left in that cold room but Jon and Ghost._

_Then it happens, but Jon falls to his knees, because he does not remember this. This is not how he has stored it, in his mind._

_‘This is the truth.’_

_Jon falls to his knees, mouth open in a silent scream, as he watches himself sit up on that slab, chest marred with fresh wounds, gasping and terrified. Ghost is there, because that wolf always has been, but here it is, this awful truth, and Jon does not want to look, not anymore._

_‘You are dead.’_

_“No,” he whispers. “No, this is not what happened.”_

_‘It is.’_

_He sees himself rise from the table, but it is not his body that stands on shaky legs, like a newborn colt. His body is still there, on that slab._

_Davos does not rush in, like Jon remembers. He is alone._

_Alone._

_Except for Ghost._

_Sobs rack him, now, as he bears witness, and he buries his face in his hands._

_“I’m dead.”_

_He braces his hands on that cold, stone floor, that accursed floor in that accursed place. Castle Black is a fitting name, for there is only darkness here, and death._

_Then the stone is gone, and his hands are buried in the snow, the wind whistling around his ears, sleet stinging his face._

_‘Get up.’ That voice is no longer vicious, but it is still his. ‘One more thing to see, lad.’_

_He stands, woodenly, and looks around the courtyard of Winterfell._

_“Why am I here?”_

_‘Don’t you remember? We came here next. To rest. For peace. With our family.’ There is a little venom on that last word._

_He sees himself, pale and white, shirtless even, walking through the snow. The people milling about are oblivious to his presence, though they see Ghost well enough, some shouts raised at the sight of him. The Boltons had this place then, he thinks, but he follows himself, even though he does not want to see this, doesn’t want to know._

_He thinks he remembers, now, but he follows, all the same._

_The crypts are as they were in his boyhood: cold, ominous, forbidding. He remembers scaring the piss out of his sisters, coating himself in flour, pretending to be a ghost. The irony is not lost on him._

_His body shuffles forward, as he watches, deeper in, only stopping before the statue of Ned, memorialized forever, here with all the other Kings of Winter, these Starks of Winterfell._

_He hears the voice just as the other Jon does._

_“What are you doing here, lad?” It is Ned but it is not. It is what remains, a spectre in the darkness, sword in hand, pointing it right at that pale Jon’s chest. “You can’t be here. You don’t belong here.”_

_“Father,” he hears himself say, in a trembling voice. “Father, please. I have nowhere else to go.”_

_It makes his very soul tremble inside him, how lost he sounds to his own ears, but there is no pity in Ned Stark, only resolution._

_“You must leave.” There comes a clattering, the sound of swords being drawn, stone wolves rising, prowling, sniffing about. Now there is an emotion, in the man’s voice, and it is of rising panic. “They’ll tear you apart, Jon. You have to go, now!”_

_They are coming, he knows, he can see those misty gray forms, see them gathering behind Ned Stark, can feel their anger building. “Interloper!” The cry comes from the crowd, and then it is a chorus and he sees himself backing away._

_“Where am I meant to go?” The desperation is clear, in the voice of that Jon, that lost, wounded Jon who just wants to be home. “What am I meant to do?”_

_Ned advances, before the host, and as Jon watches he sees a flash of pity in those unearthly eyes, as the man’s face becomes one of decay, a rotting wound at his neck. “Go south,” comes the ragged whisper. “Get warm.”_

_The other Jon runs, and so he must as well, but where that fleeing version of him is blind to the woman who stands just inside the entrance of the crypts, he is not. He stops, short, sees her there, sobbing, wailing, in her white gown, staining with blood. He sees the agony on her face. She screams his name, but it is no use. The Jon who runs, who leaves, cannot hear her._

_But he does, and he feels his eyes growing hot, his hands trembling at his sides, as he fights the urge to reach for her._

_“Mother,” he whispers, and to his utter shock she falls quiet. She turns, her lips cracked and dry, her skin waxy, her hands stained with her own blood, just as they had been in that Dornish tower._

_“I loved you. I always did.” Her mouth twists in sorrow. “I’m so sorry, Jon. I tried to be brave.”_

_Jon steps forward, reaches for her at last, but his hands pass through her as though she is nothing more than mist. “I know,” he chokes out. “I killed you. It was my fault. It was me.”_

_“No.” She grows stronger before him, finds something within herself, her skin regaining its color, her hair no longer limp. There is no blood. “You saved me. You were the best thing I ever did.” She looks around, breathing heavily. Her face falls, but she gathers herself. “It’s not your fault, it never was.” She swallows, even as she begins to fade. “It wasn’t his, either. Tell him.”_

_“Who?”_

_Her eyes bore into his, eyes so like his own. “Your father.”_

\-------------

Jon’s eyes opened, slowly, the sound of sea birds crying out, wheeling about in the sky above. The surf crashed behind him, the comforting weight of Ghost’s head on his lap a welcome sensation.

He sat, for hours, just sat, and thought.

“Go south,” he whispered to himself, “Get warm.”

Well, he’d done that, hadn’t he? Dragonstone was far warmer than the North had ever been.

He flexed his hand, raised it, felt the scar that bisected his eye.

Ghost raised his head, and looked at Jon. He smiled down at the wolf, gratefulness, peace overtaking the anger that still simmered low in his belly. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” He scratched behind the wolf’s ears, and lowered his face to the wolf’s head, breathing in the scent of his fur, the scent of life, of the wild. “Sorry it took me so long.”

The wolf just nuzzled into his lap, as though all was forgiven.

Jon stood, and brushed himself off, stretching, squinting into the morning sun. He looked down, and started, when he saw what he was wearing. He brushed a hand over the gorget, over the wolves stamped into the metal. He smiled fondly.

He felt whole, now, complete.

He looked up at the Keep, and began to walk.

\--------------

Gendry was in the solar, typing away on his computer, when Jon found him.

He was on his feet in an instant, rushing over to Jon’s side, but Jon waved him off, instead wandering around the room, only stopping to stand before the small hearth and brace a hand on the mantle.

“I feel a bit clearer, now,” Jon said, and heard Gendry’s rough exhale.

“You know, don’t you?”

“Aye, lad. I know. I remember. How long have you known?” His anger was departed completely, now, because it served no purpose, anymore. He was where he was meant to be, at last, in no small part because of the other man in the room.

When he turned, he saw how scared Gendry looked, as though their years of friendship had disappeared in an instant. Jon understood, quickly, what troubled the man, even as he gave a jerking nod in Jon’s direction. “Reckon I always have,” Gendry said quietly, picking his way around his scattered books and electronics to slump in a chair. “Ever since Ghost pulled me out of that snowdrift and hauled my sorry ass back to Castle Black.” He rubbed a hand against his neck, rolling his head. “I didn’t see you ‘til three days later, and even then, I thought I was imagining you. You were the first actual ghost I’d ever made contact with.” He glanced over at the wolf slumped on the floor with a rueful smile. “No offense.”

Jon looked away, his gaze returning to the flames. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

A heavy sigh sounded. “I’ve spent years trying to work out what was going on with you. How it could be that you didn’t know what you were. How it could be that you seemed able to travel about. Most, when they die, they’re sort of stuck, you see? Bounded to that place where they passed. But not you.” He paused, and Jon thought he heard the man swallow. “Then I started researching wargs, after we started exploring on our own, after I posted videos on my channel and people saw Ghost, saw what he was. The last direwolf in existence. Post after post, reply after replying, telling me that Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, must have been a warg. That your wolf was carrying you, sheltering you.” Jon turned, pinned by the man’s stare as he looked up. “He was trying to take you home.”

It resonated, with Jon, struck a chord deep within him, because that was precisely what his tired old friend had been trying to do. A ribbon of guilt flicked through his heart, that he’d forced this on Ghost for near on a thousand years, now. “Aye, he was,” Jon rasped out. “And finally he has.”

“I was just trying to help you, Jon. You were in there, when he found me. You saved me just as much as Ghost did. I wanted to return the favor. Help you find some peace.”

Jon stepped away from the mantle, and moved to where Gendry sat, crouching to regard the man solemnly. “Thank you.”

Gendry seemed surprised. “You aren’t cross?”

Jon chuckled belatedly and straightened. “No,” he answered, truthfully. “As I said before. I feel a bit clearer, now.” He gestured around, with one hand, at the room, at the Keep that surrounded them. “I understand.”

He seemed to deflate, in his relief, and Jon laughed again when Gendry grinned. “Thank the fucking Gods.” Then his eyes widened, and he grew animated again, jumping up to grab a notebook from the floor. “Bloody hells, I almost forgot.” His eyes were even rounder when they looked up from the writing in the notebook and met Jon’s. “Saw another spirit, while you were,” he waved his hand vaguely, “away. After the tower. And she definitely tried to kill me.”

“What?” Jon scratched at his jaw, idly. “Where, when?”

Gendry patted the pages and then gestured to a seat. “Sit down and I’ll tell you.”

And he did, walking Jon through a dramatically told tale of hearing a voice in the corridor, after he’d found himself back in that very solar, after Dorne, after Jon had fled. He’d heard a voice, and he followed it, ‘like a fool’, he explained sheepishly, to find it belonged to a woman so stunningly beautiful he was hypnotized by it. And he’d followed her, like a hound on a lead, down into the depth of the Keep, into an enormous, cavernous room.

“The baths,” Gendry said ominously. “She led me to the baths, and then she was naked, and stepping in, and it was like I couldn’t help but follow.” The other man groaned, and gave Jon a pointed look. “But you should’ve seen the tits on her. Gods be good, Realm’s Delight indeed.”

Jon barked out a laugh, as he tried to work out where he’d heard that name, then gasped. “Rhaenerya?”

Gendry wagged a finger. “The one and only. And it’s all going fine, she’s in the water, I’m in the water, and I’m thinking I know where this is going, because they like to do that, sometimes.” Then Gendry frowned, and raised his sleeves, showing Jon the skin of his wrists, where angry red marks circled the flesh. “Then the hands came. Rising out of the water. They grabbed at him, held me tight, tried to pull me under. I heard her say something about how very boring things had been, and how she’d gotten a new little toy to play with, then I was under, and I swear on St. Baelor, Jon, I thought that was it.”

Jon frowned, concerned. He’d been so caught up in his own troubles he had forgotten the numerous warnings that had been imparted upon him, of the danger that existed for Gendry in being here. “But it wasn’t.”

Gendry shook his head. “No. Suddenly all those hands, all those bony fingers,” the other man shudder, visibly, “they were gone. I break the surface, gasping for air, and she’s gone. But I’m not alone. Others were there. The little Princess.” He met Jon’s eyes tentatively. “Your father.”

Jon felt his throat bob, the word making his heart clench. He understood why Ned Stark did what he did, had witnessed his mother’s desperate plea to her brother. That lie, that one great lie, had saved Jon’s life. The little girl had shown him what his fate might have been, his first night there. He had felt that knife bit into his own flesh, just as it had for poor little Rhaenys.

His sister.

He swallowed back his own melancholy musings. “They saved you.”

Gendry nodded seriously. “And they warned me. I can’t stay here much longer.”

Jon had not realized, perhaps until that moment, that this journey he had embarked upon with Gendry was close to its end. He would miss the man, and his easy humor, his steadfast loyalty. But it was time to let him go, let him have his own life again, free of the burden of Jon’s quest. “I know.” His lips twisted in a sad smile. “We shall part ways soon enough.” Jon looked out the window, gauging how much was left in the day, and began to pace. “I’m going to find her tonight.”

“Daenerys?” When Jon nodded at the name, Gendry’s friendly, happy grin resurfaced. “Well, I reckon I’ve got to stick around for that. One more night, then, and I’ll go.”

Jon nodded, and extended his hand, relieved when the other man shook it, that he could feel it, though he was dead and Gendry was not. “One more night.”


End file.
